


birds fly in every direction

by distracted_dragon



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batfamily (DCU), Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Child Neglect, Emotional Abuse, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Physical Abuse, Tim Drake Gets a Hug, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake's parents are not good parents, Trauma Recovery, a family can be a batdad a bat grandad and their ridiculous batkids, bruce's dad senses are tingling, canon is garbage and i'm going dumpster diving, everyone gets some damn therapy, fix-it: almost everyone lives, in this house we love and respect alfred pennyworth send tweet, nobody you care about dies, we do not love and support Tim Drake's parents, we love and support batdad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 163,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24358207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distracted_dragon/pseuds/distracted_dragon
Summary: Tim Drake lives a perfectly good life. During the day, he's a freshman at Gotham Academy. At night, he surveils criminal activity and sends detailed analyses to Commissioner Gordon. If he's lucky, he might even get a photo of a Bat or two. He even writes increasingly popular LinkedIn articles about vigilantes and the criminal justice system under the pseudonym Jeffrey Anderson.Gotham is the one that needs help, not Tim.Bruce Wayne has a thing or two to say about that.
Comments: 1070
Kudos: 2399





	1. i can hear the sirens but i can't walk away

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Latchkey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21672928) by [goldkirk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldkirk/pseuds/goldkirk). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please know that I've only read bits and pieces of the comics. However, I did try to do my research for this fic. After all, you need to be familiar with canon so you can cherrypick the fuck out of it. 
> 
> If you enjoy reading about Batman being a good parent, I highly recommend checking out [Latchkey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21672928/chapters/51685639) by goldkirk. If Latchkey was juice, I would drink it 24/7. It's one of my all-time favorite fics and it inspired me to write this fic!
> 
> The fic's title is from Birds by Imagine Dragons. This chapter's title is from Sky Full of Song by Florence and the Machine. 
> 
> Rated T for language. Please be aware that this fic will have overarching themes of Tim's parents being neglectful and emotionally abusive. If a chapter contains any potentially upsetting material, I will add a content warning in the author's notes. 
> 
> **CW** : gunshot wound

Tim never feels more alive than when he’s ensconced in the shadows of a gargoyle three stories above Gotham’s cracked, well-loved pavement.

Gotham isn’t the most traditionally pretty city. From his perch, he can clearly see several uncomfortably large rats skittering between overflowing dumpsters. Puddles on the street shine with oil, but they also glow with a kaleidoscope of colors thanks to the light from storefronts’ neon signs. Laughter echoes from an open apartment window down the street. There’s a certain beauty to Gotham, if you care to look.

Tim checks his camera and finds that the long exposure photograph of the neon puddles has finished. He picks his camera up from its perch-- close enough to the ledge to be able to actually see the puddles but far enough that he won’t accidentally knock it over the edge-- and hums as he examines the photo. The puddles seem to almost glow from within as the reflections of the few passersby out at this hour streak through the water like ink.

Pleased, Tim sits back against the cool stone of the gargoyle and flips through his photos from earlier that night. He’d managed to get some good pictures of potential arms smugglers arguing behind shipping containers at the docks. Even better, the hood of one of the smugglers’ coats had slipped just enough for Tim to snap a few pictures of one of Vasily Kosov’s right hand men.

In the past few weeks, he’s spotted a few of the less-corrupt police sniffing around an arms smuggling operation at the docks. On one or two nights, he’d even caught flickers of green and black capes across the dock, but that may have been Tim’s imagination. Finding out that the Odessa mob is tangled up in the whole operation might just be the clue that Commissioner Gordon-- and therefore the Bats-- need to crack the whole case wide open.

Something blurry moves at the edge of his field of vision and Tim jolts upright. He has just enough time to bring up his camera to snap a few shots of Robin merrily swinging between the buildings with his grappling hook, Batman following close behind.

Catching a glimpse of the Bats is Tim’s favorite part of the night. Tim’s hiding spot in the shadows beneath the stone gargoyle isn’t nearly as cold as it looks. From his perch, he can hear the muffled conversations and sirens that form the heartbeat of the city.

A moment later and Batman and Robin are gone, vanished behind the concrete shell of a parking garage. Guess it’s time to call it a night.

Tim scrambles down onto the roof and begins the familiar trek back to Drake Manor. Climbing into bed sounds absolutely heavenly right now, but he has more pressing matters to attend to.

Tim flips open his laptop and sets up his usual network of proxy servers with a few clicks. He uploads today’s batch of photos to his computer and wastes no time in opening up his secret gmail account so he can start typing up an email to Commissioner Gordon.

Well, the email account isn’t a complete secret since the GCPD knows about it, but whatever. Tomato, tomahto.

* * *

To: James Gordon <jgordon@gcpd.gov>

From: Gotham’s Shadow <shadow@gothamphotography.com>

_September 19th, 1:03 AM (just now)_

Subject: Lead on arms smuggling at the docks

Dear Commissioner Gordon,

I hope that this missive finds you well. I heard that the GCPD has been working on an arms smuggling case at the docks for the past few weeks. Tonight, I spotted one of Vasily Kosov’s people talking with some individuals guarding a new shipment. Please see the photographs attached here. It seems unlikely that one of Vasily Kosov’s men would be bold enough to go behind his back, so the whole Odessa mob must be involved.

I would not be surprised if the Escabedo Cartel also had connections to the smuggling operation, given their relationship with the Odessa mob. Perhaps the arms are being used by the cartel to guard their drug warehouses? It seems suspicious that they would suddenly need more security; I would recommend looking into any potential threats to the Escabedo’s warehouses.

I hope that this information is of use to you. Take care.

Best regards,

Gotham’s Shadow

Attached:

09-05_docks_surveillance1.png

09-05_docks_surveillance2.png

09-05_docks_surveillance3.png

09-05_docks_Odessa1.png

09-05_docks_Odessa2.png

* * *

He sends the email and carefully places his closed laptop on his nightstand before much less carefully flopping face first into bed. He brushed his teeth before going out so he probably doesn’t need to get up to do it again, right?

His musings on dental hygiene evaporate within seconds of his head hitting the pillow and Tim conks out.

* * *

The next few days pass in a blur of classes and homework. It’s reaching the point in the semester where the students have learned enough that Gotham Academy’s teachers can actually start to give them real tests. Tim crams his studying into the hours between when he gets home from his biweekly gymnastics and self-defense classes and when he leaves for his nightly patrol.

He alternates between staking out the Escabedo Cartel’s warehouses and the docks. To his delight, he spots a few GCPD officers hunched over in hiding spots a safe distance away from the shipping containers containing what are likely smuggled firearms. Their faces are vaguely familiar, so he’s pretty sure that Gordon sent some of his half-decent cops.

It’s been years since Tim first started sending his photographs and analysis to the GCPD, but it still sends a thrill of excitement through him whenever he sees that Commissioner Gordon actually followed his advice.

They listened. Tim called and they _listened_.

During the day, it feels like Tim is constantly balancing between being deemed too old to act childish and too young to have opinions that actually matter. His job is to go to school, get good grades, and keep his parents happy.

But at night? When Tim is behind a camera, when he sends evidence to the GCPD, they _listen_. And when Tim sees Nightwing cracking jokes as he and Robin chat with some of the local homeless kids, it doesn’t matter that Tim is a short thirteen-year-old whose voice always picks the most _embarrassing_ times to crack. Tim can help.

And when Tim sits down at his computer to dissect vigilantism and the ways in which multiple institutions have failed everyone in the criminal justice system, it feels like he can actually _do_ something. Two years ago, he started writing LinkedIn articles under the pseudonym Jeffrey Anderson.

At first, his critiques went largely unnoticed, but Tim kept trying. He read what felt like every single article under the sun about increasing your LinkedIn audience. He edited his articles more carefully to make sure that they were of the highest possible quality before posting them. He created puppet accounts on various social media websites to jump-start discussions of his articles.

Like all avalanches, it started with a single stone. One of his articles went viral in Gotham overnight. His profile doesn’t explicitly say where he’s from, but he talks about Batman enough that he’s not entirely surprised. Besides, like calls to like. The blood of the city flows through all of their veins.

Now, the local news station occasionally discusses his latest article. He’s written a few opinion pieces for the Gotham Gazette that he proudly cross-listed on Jeffrey Anderson’s LinkedIn page. Tim thought about printing out the articles and hanging them on his wall, but that might be a little too arrogant of him.

Besides, what would happen if his parents came home early and saw the articles? They usually weren’t home early, of course, but Tim would rather not risk it. He didn’t want to risk their scrutiny, let alone another talk about how he should be focusing on building his resume for college instead of childish nonsense.

On Friday, Tim squints at his working title for his latest article. _Vigilantes’ role in reducing recidivism rates_ theoretically could work as a title, but he’s technically suggesting ways for vigilantes to reduce recidivism rates rather than analyzing their current work. Does that even make sense? It’s short and snappy, but is it accurate enough? Is it even grammatically correct?

What is a language if not bits of individual grammatical rules that float around like pocket lint?

Tim closes his laptop and drops his head atop it with a quiet _thud._ Fridays are supposed to be happy days! He has two whole days of no school, leaving him free to stay out later watching the Bats and then sleep in. Plus, Nightwing usually comes over from Blüdhaven on weekends, leading to all sorts of fun shenanigans with Robin and Batman.

With a groan, Tim pries himself off his computer and trudges into the kitchen to make some macaroni and cheese. Boxed mac n’ cheese will fix all of his problems.

When he’s done eating, Tim drags himself back to his room to change into his gear for the night. Most nights, his uniform consists of plain black clothes that he can move in easily but aren’t too fancy or eye-catching. He also shrugs on a black backpack with two water bottles, a portable cell phone charger, his camera, a small first aid kit, an emergency gas mask (this is Gotham, after all), some emergency cash, a flashlight, a pair of gloves and a scarf (hey, the rooftops can be fairly cold and windy even in September), and a whole bunch of granola bars just in case he or one of the homeless kids he occasionally chats with gets hungry. He pats his pocket, checking that his Swiss army knife is still tucked safely away in his pocket.

September’s night air is still in that perfect zone between not too chilly and not too hot. The city’s smog isn’t even that bad today, either. From his hiding place atop an apartment building in the East End, Tim can nearly see the stars. It’s nice. Pleasant, even. The smattering of visible stars twinkles merrily as if welcoming him with open arms.

This, Tim thinks, is where he’s meant to be. A child of Gotham wrapped up in arms made of smog and starlight.

He keeps an eye out for any suspicious activity on the streets below, but the night is largely quiet. There are a few drug deals in some of the nearby alleys, but Tim leaves them alone. Low-level drug dealers are merely symptoms of the city’s overarching drug problem, not the cause. It would be far more helpful if he spotted a known affiliate of one of Gotham’s crime families, but it seems like nobody is bothering to show their face today.

Tim sits back and tries to let himself enjoy the peace and quiet, but he feels-- _unproductive_. Idleness doesn’t sit well with him; it never has. It’s not that he’s not a patient person or anything. He’s mature and besides, he’s spent practically a million hours sitting on cold, uncomfortable surfaces as he waited for the perfect photo opportunity.

But right now? Right now, he’s in the beating heart of the city and it feels empty. Wrong. The air feels all weird, like the city is holding its breath as it waits for something. The question is, what is it waiting for?

Time drags its feet until, finally, Tim has his answer.

The building that he chose to perch on tonight doesn’t offer the best vantage point, but it’s a good hiding spot. It’s sandwiched by a taller building on one side and a shorter one on the other. Still, Tim can see into the alleyways directly next to him and he can glimpse the tops of the surrounding alleyways. He can hear pretty well, too. Certainly well enough to hear the grating noise of metal on metal and the barest hint of a solid thump, like a garbage bag hitting the pavement.

The sound is suspicious as hell. Who takes their trash out at this hour? It’s pushing one in the morning.

If Tim was a normal person, he would probably mind his own damn business and ignore the noise. Then again, if Tim was a normal person, he’d probably be asleep in his bed at Drake Manor.

Instead, Tim picks himself off the cold rooftop and, taking care to stay low and out of sight, drops down onto the shorter rooftop to his right. From there, reaching the source of the noise is only a matter of a short leap between the rooftops. Tim carefully stows his camera away in his backpack first to keep it out of the way-- he has the money to buy another camera if he wants to, but he likes _this_ camera. It’s his camera and he doesn’t want to accidentally break it! He takes a running start and jumps onto the next rooftop, rolling forward to soften his landing.

Tim would like to thank his gymnastics instructor, Ms. Pemberly, for helping him learn how to somersault without cracking his head open on the ground. Going to her gymnastics classes twice a week is among the best decisions that he’s ever made.

His landing is quiet enough that Tim is fairly pleased with himself as he creeps forward to the edge of the roof to peer into the alleyway below.

The alley cuts between ramshackle apartments and is lined with a few dumpsters. At one point, it was lit by two main lights, one on each adjacent building. However, the light on the building across from Tim sports a large crack across it, casting half of the alley in partial darkness. A rickety fire escape hugs the wall next to the working light but, like most things in the East End, it looks like it’s about one good kick from falling apart.

The most eye-catching thing in the alley, however, is the motionless black-clad figure sprawled atop a dumpster. Emblazoned across their chest is an achingly familiar blue bird.

Nightwing.

At the other end of the alley, three other people exchange looks and slowly approach the dumpster. Their faces are all unfamiliar, but Tim catches the glint of a gun in the hands of the person in the middle. From what he can tell, their clothes don’t look outrageously expensive. The man on the right has a tattoo on his forearm that looks vaguely like something that he’s seen on a few of Maroni’s men, but it’s hard to tell. Just to be safe, he quietly pulls his camera out from his backpack and takes a picture. He takes care to lay on his stomach, pressing himself as close to the rooftop as possible to keep out of sight.

Luckily, they don’t seem to notice the glint of his camera lens. Tim leans back and pushes his backpack away from the edge of the roof. It nearly knocks over a couple of empty beer bottles, but Tim manages to still them before they could make any noise.

(Was someone drinking on a rooftop? That seems irresponsible.)

“Well, well, well,” crows the person in the middle as they saunter closer to the dumpster. “Looks like we have a downed birdie on our doorstep. I think someone fell out of the nest.”

Tim frowns. Why do they sound like a B-list villain from some action movie? Have some originality.

“Remember the time Batman blew up the warehouse with all of our stash in it?” The woman on the left pulls out a switchblade. Oh fuck. “Because I sure do.”

Fuck fuck fuck.

Tim casts about for something-- anything-- to do. He could throw the beer bottles down, but that would maybe distract them for a few seconds. Given Nightwing’s current condition, Tim doubts that he’d be able to take advantage of the distraction and escape. What he needs is to scare them.

His eyes drift to the emergency light and the rickety fire escape.

Below, the trio advances towards Nightwing. They move slowly, smiling as they savor the moment. Tim shifts so he’s sitting up on the rooftop with his feet dangling over the ledge. Luckily, the light is close enough to the roof-- ostensibly for it to be repaired or replaced, not that anything in the East End or Crime Alley is ever repaired-- for him to touch it.

“Here, little birdie,” the man on the right, the one with the tattoo, calls.

Tim shifts his weight and draws his hoodie further down. Hands gripping the edge of the roof, he takes a deep breath and slams his heel into the emergency light.

It shatters beautifully, raining glass onto the ground below as the alley is plunged into darkness.

“Shit,” says one of the people below. “What the--”

Tim kicks the fire escape and the bolts attaching it to the building creak dangerously. Another well-placed kick is all it takes to send the entire structure crashing down in front of the trio, blocking them from reaching Nightwing. The fire escape hits the ground with a clang that’s quickly followed by a chorus of shrieking and swearing.

“Oh, fuck no. I’m not dealing with this shit,” someone below announces. They sound out of breath. “Fuck this, I’m out.”

“Wait, we need to--” another voice calls as the fire escape groans.

Tim can faintly see one of the people pulling the other out from under the fire escape. He sucks in a breath, but it looks like the other person is able to stand on their own two feet, albeit unsteadily. Good, no serious injuries.

“Wait for us!” One of the pair calls as they hobble out of the alley.

Tim leans back, pulling his legs up and pressing himself against the rooftop. He waits for the footsteps to head away before he pulls his backpack on and peers over the edge of the alley. It’s empty save for a few dumpsters, the fire escape, and Nightwing’s body.

The roof is maybe two or three stories high. Tim might be able to climb down, but the drainage pipe on the edge of the alley looks like a much more attractive option. He checks his gloves-- it would be bad to leave his fingerprints everywhere, after all-- and wastes no time in shimmying down the side of the building, clinging to the pipe with all of his strength. He’s careful to keep his camera from clanging against the pipe. Its lens cap is securely attached, but he doesn’t want to risk scratching anything.

His landing isn’t the best but he doesn’t break his camera or twist an ankle or anything, so Tim counts it as a win. He creeps towards the dumpster where Nightwing is lying and sighs in relief when he sees the rise and fall of the vigilante’s chest. Good, he isn’t dead. The two holes in the side of his suit don’t look good, though. Neither does the slowly spreading pool of blood that’s dampening the garbage around him.

“Um, hi” He begins and awkwardly tugs his hood down. Hopefully, it’ll cover his face enough to keep him from being recognized, either by Nightwing or whatever cameras are likely embedded in his suit. Taking care to warp his words into a thick Gotham accent, he adds, “I’m here to help. Are you awake?”

Nightwing grunts.

“Okay, that’s probably a good thing. Uh. Did you already call for help?”

Another grunt. This one sounds vaguely affirmative.

“Good, great,” he says, nodding. At least he doesn’t have to figure out a way to get Nightwing back to the rest of the Bats. “I don’t exactly know a lot about taking care of bullet wounds and I’d rather not get electrocuted by your suit while trying to stop the bleeding, so… I guess I’m going to go?”

Nightwing’s arms twitch and he weakly tries to push himself up, groaning.

“I don’t know if moving is a good idea,” Tim tries, but Nightwing only grunts in response.

Halfway through, he seems to give up and lays back down. The white-out lenses in his suit prevent Tim from seeing exactly where he’s looking, but something tells Tim that Nightwing’s eyes are fixed on him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay until I see that Batman or Robin has come to get you. I’ll stay out of sight, though.” Tim turns and starts to walk towards the other building’s remaining fire escape before he hesitates. He looks over his shoulder and surely enough, Nightwing is still looking straight at him. “Um. Sorry that I couldn’t help more. You do good work,” he offers meekly before turning tail and scurrying up the fire escape. His camera swings about, bumping against his chest with every step.

Heart pounding, Tim flattens himself against the roof and settles in to wait for the cavalry to arrive. He just met Nightwing. _Nightwing_! He also probably sounded like a complete idiot and he really hopes that Nightwing didn’t realize how young he is. Shadows can hide a lot and he tried to make his voice sound deeper than it actually is, but there’s only so much that he can do.

He clutches his camera protectively and tries to even out his breathing. If he could see his hands, he’d bet that his knuckles are white. Soon enough, the telltale rumble of the Batmobile roars in the distance and Tim sighs in relief.

Tim waits until the rumble halts just outside the alley before he army crawls away from the edge of the roof. He can just barely hear a deep voice call, “Nightwing?” as Tim books it out of there.

He sprints across rooftops, feet flying over the concrete, and doesn’t begin to slow until he reaches the edge of the city. Tim makes the rest of the trip with only the sound of his heartbeat to keep him company as the ever-present buzz of the city fades into the distance.

His heart continues to pound as he slips into the oppressively silent Drake Manor. It keeps pounding even as he stares at his bedroom ceiling, replaying the events of the night, until sleep finally claims him.

* * *

Monday rolls around, ushering in yet another week of school. Tim has a history quiz that he forgets about until fifteen minutes before class. He spends the last part of his English class skimming through his history notes. All things considered, the quiz goes okay. Still, Tim is all too eager to leave class and head to the library for lunch. He nearly misses seeing Jason Todd-- Batman’s current Robin-- as they pass each other in the hallway.

Jason has dark circles under his eyes and his mouth is set in a grim line. He doesn’t seem to notice Tim as they walk by each other, but that’s unsurprising. It’s unlikely that Jason even realizes that Tim exists.

The mass of students swarming towards the cafeteria whisks Jason away. In the blink of an eye, he’s gone.

* * *

That night, Tim glares at his laptop like it personally offended him.

_It’s Their City Too: An Analysis of Personal Attacks on Vigilantes_

Jeffrey Anderson, September 25th 20XX

_Vigilantes represent more than just individuals in capes. They simultaneously exist both as citizens of their city and as a manifestation of the city itself. Therefore, opportunistic attacks on vigilantes not only assault the masked individual, but also the city itself. However, these attacks are only symptoms of the illness. At some point, the individuals who attack vigilantes were harmed in some way by the systems of oppression maintained by the city. In turn, they target a manifestation of the city itself: vigilantes. As a result, the cycle of violence propagates itself…_

He frowns, staring at his cursor as it gently blinks at the end of his latest sentence.

_...but vigilantes occupy a dual role as both citizens and protectors. They are part of the city too. Do they not deserve the same security and happiness that they offer to their cities?_

Tim thinks of the two bullet holes in Nightwing’s torso, of the concern soaking Batman’s voice as he called out for his son. He thinks of the grim weariness on Jason’s face. He thinks of the photographs buried deep in his closet of Robin and Nightwing grinning as they shout jokes to each other, of Batman smiling and shaking his head at their antics. Of Batman standing on a rooftop overlooking the city, of the stars bleeding into his silhouette.

He hits save on the document and closes it. Writing about attacks so soon after his encounter with Nightwing seems like it would be asking for trouble.

His knees crack when he stands up to get ready for his usual night out on the town. With one of the Bats injured, he’ll need to step up his surveillance game until Nightwing is back in commission. After all, there’s work to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I'd like to thank my beta reader, [S](https://chocolateandsilver.tumblr.com/)! They are the mastermind behind Tim's philosophical articles being posted on LinkedIn, the most professional yet chaotic website. S is the literal best.
> 
> This fic is going to diverge somewhat from canon because I'm fairly new to the DCU. However, if you noticed anything weird that you want to point out to me, feel free to let me know in a comment! ("Weird" in this context can cover literally anything, including questions about a reference to canon or "hey why did you do x instead of y".) 
> 
> If you want to hear me scream about this fic or my other works, check out my [writing blog](https://distracted-dragon-age.tumblr.com/) or my [DCU/batfam sideblog](https://batfam-chaos.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Please go check out the beautiful illustration made by acidulication [[HERE]](https://acidulication.tumblr.com/post/624197043502661632/if-tim-was-a-normal-person-he-would-probably-mind)!! It is so beautiful and I am still crying over it. Come look at more of acidulication's absolutely stunning art on their [[TUMBLR]](https://acidulication.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!! <3


	2. do you ever think of me and my two hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim's plans for the semester are upended. Mysteries abound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Never Love an Anchor by The Crane Wives. 
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to my cymbalta. We love having semi-functional brain chemistry. ;) ;) ;)
> 
>  **CWs:** none

To: Timothy Jackson Drake <tjdrake@drake.net>

From: Janet Lynn Drake <jldrake@drake.net>

_September 26th, 5:38 AM (2 hours ago)_

Subject: Change of plan

We’re going to take a detour in Brazil for a few weeks and push our return home to sometime in late October. We’ll figure out the details later.

Study hard!

Love,

Mom

* * *

To: Janet Lynn Drake <jldrake@drake.net>

From: Timothy Jackson Drake <tjdrake@drake.net>

_September 26th, 7:45 AM (just now)_

Subject: Re: Change of plan

Hi Mom,

Brazil sounds fun! How’s Chile been? I recently read a few interesting articles about the historical usage of terraces and aqueducts in Chilean agriculture. I’ve linked to them here in case you want to take a look: [link] [link] [link]

School has been going well. My algebra teacher returned our tests today and I aced mine! It looks like I’m on track to make straight A’s this semester.

Love,

Tim

* * *

On Wednesday, Tim’s phone buzzes during his chemistry class. He risks pulling his phone out of his pocket and hiding it under his desk so he can check the caller ID. _Dad._

Well then. Looks like he’ll have to take the call.

Tim raises his hand and waits to be called on. “Mrs. Martinez, may I please go to the bathroom?”

His teacher waves him out before returning to the lesson. A few of his classmates, eager to pay attention to literally anything other than a lecture on the qualities of the periodic table, glance at him as he leaves. They don’t pay him too much mind, though.

Tim tucks his phone back into his pocket and closes the classroom door quietly behind him before heading to the stairwell. There will be better reception there. As an added bonus, he’ll be harder to spot and teachers will be less likely to find him to ask why he’s not in class.

His phone had stopped ringing a few moments ago, but it starts up again rather quickly. Is it an emergency? Did someone die? Images of hospitals and potential accidents race through his head as Tim accepts the call and holds his phone up to his ear. “Dad? Is everything okay?” He tries to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

Without preamble, his dad says, “Some of our colleagues have been asking what you’re up to.” There’s an edge of a grumble in his voice. He’s probably upset that he had to wait so long for Tim to pick up the phone.

“Well, I’m in school right now--” Tim begins, but his dad cuts him off.

“ _Timothy_ ,” his father says curtly. Tim’s blood freezes as ice fills his veins. “I mean college. You need to start bulking up your resume. It’ll look good on college applications and reflect well on us. Your mother and I have emailed you a list of clubs to choose from. Let us know what you’ve decided by the end of the week.”

He leans back against the cold concrete wall and drums his fingers on the grooves between the cinder blocks. “Okay. Thank you.”

His dad grunts. “Oh, and next time? Pick up the damn phone. It’s getting late over here and I don’t want to waste time listening to the phone ringing while I wait for you to pick up.”

“Right,” Tim says. “Sorry, Dad. I was in class.”

“Are you telling me that you’re supposed to be in class right now?” his dad demands. “What are you doing, then? Go back to class! We can’t afford to let your grades slip.”

“I’ll go back right now. Bye, Dad.”

“Bye.”

The call clicks as his dad hangs up. Tim stares at the words “call ended” blinking at him from his phone before he shoves it back into his pocket and heads back to class. His back is still cold from the cool concrete wall, but Tim ignores the feeling as he slips back into his seat.

* * *

During lunch, he checks his email and finds the list of clubs that his parents sent to him.

To: Timothy Jackson Drake <tjdrake@drake.net>

From: Janet Lynn Drake <jldrake@drake.net>

CC: Jack Drake <jdrake@drake.net>

_September 27th, 10:49 AM (1 hour ago)_

Subject: Extracurriculars

Here is a list of approved extracurricular activities that will look good on your resume. Choose at least one and join it.

_Model UN_

_Debate team_

_Book club_

_Student government_

_Future Business Leaders of America_

_Investment club_

Let us know which one you’ve chosen by the end of the day today.

Mom

* * *

Most of them look horrifically boring, designed to train him to be a CEO, or both. Debate team seems like it could be interesting, but the book club looks genuinely fun. How did the book club make the list, anyways? Maybe his parents probably want him to be well read so he can flaunt his intellectualism in board meetings or something.

A flyer taped to the side of a bookshelf in Tim’s little corner of the library declares that the school’s book club meets every Thursday after school until 4pm. Another flyer advertising debate team says that it meets during lunch on Mondays and Thursdays. Perfect, neither club will interfere with his gymnastics or self-defense classes. He sets down his half-eaten bologna sandwich so he can type out a reply.

* * *

To: Janet Lynn Drake <jldrake@drake.net>

From: Timothy Jackson Drake <tjdrake@drake.net>

CC: Jack Drake <jdrake@drake.net>

_September 27th, 12:30 PM (just now)_

Subject: Re: Extracurriculars

Hi Mom and Dad,

I’ll join the book club and debate team. Book club has a meeting tomorrow afternoon that I’ll attend.

Love,

Tim

* * *

He hits send and sets his phone face down on the table. It’ll be inconvenient to work around yet another activity in his schedule, but he’ll figure something out. If he gets desperate, he can always type up drafts of his Jeffrey Anderson LinkedIn articles on his phone during lunch or something.

Tim picks up his bologna sandwich again and resumes poring through his chemistry textbook.

* * *

At three o’clock on Thursday afternoon, Tim pokes his head into Gotham Academy’s library and finds around a dozen people already gathered there. They’re congregated in the middle of the library, pulling chairs into a messy circle.

Tim watches the group for a moment, gripping his backpack’s shoulder straps. The students all seem relatively at ease as they chat with each other. One or two people are on their phones, but most of them seem to be engaged in conversation. Under normal circumstances, Tim is good at fading into the background and remaining unseen. Unfortunately, his streak of going unnoticed doesn’t seem to hold today.

“Hey, are you here for book club?” one of the students calls over to him. Tim turns to get a better look at the student and finds a tall, broad-shouldered teenager with a head full of curly black hair, tawny brown skin, and striking blue eyes. It’s Jason Todd. Jason Todd-- Batman’s current Robin-- is in Gotham Academy’s book club?

Part of Tim wants to shriek in excitement because _Robin_ , the coolest person on the entire planet, is here. The other part of him wants to go hide in a hole because _Robin is here_ and what if Tim says something stupid? What if he tries to speak but accidentally spits as he talks and some of the spit gets on Jason? Oh my god, that would be mortifying. Tim would have to move to a different city.

Snapping back to the situation in front of him, Tim nods.

Jason grins and pats the seat next to him. “Great! Get your butt over here, then. Are you a freshman?”

Tim shuffles over and obediently sits in the chair to Jason’s left. He shrugs his backpack off and gently dumps on the floor. “Yeah, I’m a freshman.”

Jason scratches at his chin. “Huh, weird. Your face is kinda familiar. What’s your name?”

“I’m Timothy Drake. I live next door to you,” he explains, resisting the urge to kick his feet like a child.

His eyes widen. “Oh, so _you’re_ the Drake’s kid! Well, welcome to book club. By the way, do you like being called Timothy?”

Tim picks at the hem of his sleeve as he considers the question. “Tim is fine,” he decides. “Or you can call me Timothy. I don’t really mind.”

“Hey, everyone!” Jason calls, catching the attention of the other book club attendees. “Say hi to Tim! All right, let’s introduce ourselves. Gabriel, you start.”

The other students go in a circle and each share their names. Tim tries his best to remember everyone’s names-- it would be rude to forget, after all-- but it’s all a bit rapid-fire.

“Great! Now that we’ve introduced ourselves, let’s get started. As you may remember, reading mystery novels won the vote for this week’s activity,” says a pretty blonde senior. “Let’s start off with _The Withered Rose_ by David Lopez. For the new folks here, we like to encourage commentary and discussion while listening to the reading. Guessing on the ending and trying to identify the murderer is also allowed! It increases engagement in the work, blah blah blah, but it also makes the whole thing a lot more fun. Of course, if you’ve already read this book before, don’t spoil the ending! I’ll start us off, but feel free to volunteer to read if you’re feeling up to it.”

Someone passes a book over to the senior and she smiles at them before opening the book. “Mrs. Bigby was rather proud of her garden. Her tulips won first place in the country fair for three years in a row and her daffodils were the talk of Brighton Hills. Those same daffodils now lay amongst the remnants of a shattered vase next to her unmoving body…”

Tim drums his fingers on his leg as he listens. He stares at the ground, letting the other students’ conversations flow around him.

A few people maintain a rather amusing running commentary on the… _interesting_ fashion choices of each character. (When was this book written, the 1980s?) Jason cracks puns under his breath or laughs at the others’ jokes. Whenever a character says something particularly suspicious, a few people chime in, “Oh, I don’t trust them!”

Being surrounded by people isn’t quite as excruciating as Tim expected. In fact, it’s actually surprisingly nice. The book is interesting too. Tim leans back in his chair as he contemplates each piece of the plot, considering possible patterns and motives. Mrs. Bigby’s husband had the motive to kill his wife and collect her life insurance, but the murder method didn’t make sense for him. But…

“I think the younger son did it,” Tim says abruptly. A few heads turn to look at him. “The book mentioned that he used to help his mother with making fertilizer, but it didn’t say anything about using natural fertilizers. That means that he likely has experience in dealing with various chemicals. He could’ve laced her tea with something.”

One of the other students frowns contemplatively. “But why would Jerome kill his mother? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I don’t think that he meant to kill his mother. I think he wanted to kill his older brother so he could take over his general store. His brother had a fancy kettle in his kitchen, but the other appliances were run down. Why would he have a nice kettle if he didn’t like tea?” Tim picks at his jacket’s sleeve. “So Jerome set a trap. He laced some nice Darjeeling with something poisonous and left it in the kitchen right before his brother was supposed to arrive. It would be the perfect trap if his brother wasn’t late, allowing Mrs. Bigby to accidentally drink the poisoned tea first.”

“Don’t spoil it!” someone hisses.

Tim looks up. “I, um, was just guessing. I haven’t read the book before. Did I guess correctly?”

Next to him, Jason nods and leans towards the current reader. “Which page are we on?”

“We’re on page twenty-three. The whole book has nearly two hundred pages.”

Jason turns to Tim, a curious glint in his eye. “Dude, nice work! The first time I read that book, I didn’t figure it out until two-thirds of the way through. Do you read a lot of mystery novels?”

Tim shrugs. “Not really? I mostly stick to nonfiction. I like puzzles, though.”

“Whoah, could’ve fooled me. You’re really good at this, Tim.” Jason nudges Tim with his elbow, smiling, before turning back to the blonde senior who had spoken earlier. “Ashley, let’s read the backup book. I bet Tim would like that one.”

“Is everyone good with that?” the blonde senior, Ashley, asks the assorted students. She’s met with a chorus of agreement. “Cool, then let’s do it.” She reaches for a book on the table behind her and cracks it open.

This time, it takes Tim thirty-one pages to guess the murderer. Although it technically took him longer to guess correctly than with the first book, the delighted look on Jason’s face makes up for it.

Ashley announces something to the group about them being out of time, but they’ll have another meeting next week. A glance at the clock on the wall reveals that it’s already 4:10pm. Did time really pass so quickly?

“Hey, man. Good job,” Jason interrupts Tim’s reverie by holding out one fist. It takes Tim a moment to realize that it’s for a fist bump. He lightly returns the fist bump, trying not to stare too much at the feathery scars on Jason’s knuckles.

“Oh, um, thanks,” Tim replies, clasping his hands in his lap. “Are all of your meetings usually like this?”

Jason shrugs. “Not all of them. This week and next week’s meeting will be kinda unusual because Ashley and I want any walk-ins to be able to join in. Most of the time, we just discuss whichever book we decided to read that week.”

“Ah, I see.”

“You know, my dad has a bunch of mystery novels if you wanted to get more into the genre.” Jason leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. “Are you doing anything this afternoon? You could come hang out and check out his collection.”

Tim laughs politely and stands up, pulling on his backpack. “That sounds nice, but I have a lot of homework that I need to do today.”

It’s not an outright lie. He needs to start writing a draft for another Jeffrey Anderson article and stake out some of the Escabedo Cartel’s warehouses. Plus, he does have actual homework.

“I get it, I get it. You wanna come over tomorrow or sometime later instead? It’s a standing offer, just text me whenever,” Jason offers casually, jacket wrinkling as he leans back in his chair.

“I don’t have your number.”

“Give me your phone?” Jason holds out one hand. Some force takes hold of Tim’s hand and compels him to open a new contact on his phone and place it in Jason’s outstretched hand. He watches as Jason enters his information and sends a text to himself. A moment later, he passes the phone back to Tim.

“There,” he says, pleased. “Just let me know, yeah?”

“Of course,” Tim demurs.

“Bruce has first editions of Meredith Moore’s _The Finding Game_ and a complete collection of the works of Kartik Mishra. Have you read either of them?”

It sounds like a genuine offer and Jason’s face is eager, curious. Part of Tim is screaming that getting too close to Bruce Wayne-- to Batman-- is a _bad idea_. That probably involves visiting Bruce Wayne’s literal house. The other part of him really wants to get his hands on those books. He had thoroughly enjoyed reading Mishra’s discussion of the dynamic between governments and its people. Mishra had a fascinating perspective on the government’s obligations to its people and the people’s obligations to the government.

Halfway to the door, Tim pauses. “I’ve read one or two of Kartik Mishra’s philosophical treatises, but his work is hard to find. Your dad really has all of his books?”

Jason nods, a hint of a smile creeping across his face. “Yeah, he does. You should come check them out.”

Tim knows when he’s fighting a losing battle. “All right,” he concedes. “I’ll let you know when I’m free.”

“Great!” Jason says cheerfully. “I’ll see you later, then.”

Tim exits the library before Jason can offer to walk to the pick up/drop off area where most of Gotham Academy’s students are ferried to and from school by chauffeurs in imposing black cars. Instead, Tim leaves the building through a side entrance and makes his way to the bike rack to fetch his bike.

Something doesn’t feel right. Why is Jason so interested in him? He didn’t think that he revealed anything particularly noteworthy about himself aside from his newfound ability to guess the ending of mystery novels. His mention of Kartik Mishra was far too obscure to connect him to Jeffrey Anderson, who had only cited Mishra’s work twice, so that couldn’t be it.

Tim pulls on his helmet and kicks his bike into motion with one foot. He’ll have to investigate this matter further.

* * *

Tim [08/27, 8:58 PM]: I’m free tomorrow afternoon if you still want to hang out?

Jason [08/27, 9:01 PM]: heck yeah dude!!

Jason [08/27, 9:01 PM]: our butler alfred makes the BEST cookies

Jason [08/27, 9:02 PM]: we will feed u and u can guess the endings of mystery novels earlier than when any reasonable human should be able to. it’ll be great

Jason [08/27, 9:03 PM]: oh brb my dad is calling me for something. i g2g but see you tomorrow!! [devil face]

Tim [08/27, 9:15 PM]: Sounds fun! See you tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my beta reader, [S](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolateandsilver), for being wonderful! 
> 
> Check out my tumblrs for more content:  
> [writing blog](https://distracted-dragon-age.tumblr.com/)  
> [DCU/batfam sideblog](https://batfam-chaos.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Feel free to ask me questions about anything! I love talking about this fic. :D 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!! <3


	3. everyone you ever knew is really just a part of you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim visits Wayne Manor, eats some cookies, and pets a dog. Oh, and he meets the man behind the Bat. No big deal. He's fine. It's fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another update. Enjoy!
> 
> Chapter title is from The Ends and the Means by Robby Hecht. 
> 
> Several people have asked in the comments whether I'm planning on killing Jason off. I promise you that nobody who you care about will die in this fic. Jason is a good kid and I would probably cry if he died. :')
> 
> Last updated on 07/20/2020.
> 
>  **CWs:** none

Jason [08/28, 2:17 PM]: meet me by the pick up area at 3. alfred is going to drive us

Tim [08/28, 2:22 PM]: Okay, sounds good. I’ll see you there.

* * *

“Tim!”

Tim turns his head and finds Jason waving enthusiastically at him from next to the curb. He raises a hand and waves back before jogging over.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says when he finally reaches Jason. “I didn’t mean to make you wait.”

“Hey, it’s only 3:02. I don’t think two minutes counts as being late,” Jason laughs and leans in for a one-armed hug. Caught off guard, Tim freezes and Jason smoothly switches to lightly patting Tim’s shoulder. Tim relaxes a fraction as Jason draws away.

“Hey, I think I see Alf’s car. C’mere,” he says, pointing towards a nondescript black car in the long line of parents and chauffeurs waiting to pick up their children.

Obediently, Tim trails Jason over to the car. A somewhat pale, balding man steps out of the driver’s side door and nods at them in greeting. He’s wearing a well-tailored black blazer and dress slacks. “Good afternoon Master Jason, Master Timothy. I am Alfred Pennyworth, Master Bruce’s butler.” He opens the door to the back seat of the car.

“He’s also the main thing keeping Bruce from accidentally burning down the house when he tries to cook,” Jason adds cheerily as he slides into the back seat.

Tim follows him, placing his backpack next to Jason’s on the floor. Alfred closes the car door behind them and circles back around the car, climbing back into the driver’s seat.

“Thank you for driving us, Mr. Pennyworth.” Tim says after a beat.

“You’re very welcome, Master Timothy. Although, if you prefer, you may call me Alfred instead of Mr. Pennyworth.” Alfred fastens his seatbelt with Jason and Tim quickly following suit. The car comes to life with a quiet hum and slides out of the line, heading back towards the main road.

“So, Master Timothy. Do you have any allergies? I was planning on making cookies for you boys, but I would like to make sure that I don’t accidentally poison you.” The car turns onto the main road and Alfred meets Tim’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

His eyes are dark brown and lined with wrinkles. They look like the eyes of any normal human, and yet. It’s so subtle that Tim almost misses it, but something about the way that Alfred Pennyworth looks at Tim makes him feel like he’s able to see the storms lurking beneath Tim’s skin.

He knows. Nobody whose eyes can see that much would be able to work closely with Bruce Wayne and not realize that he’s Batman.

A gentle nudge interrupts Tim's train of thought. He glances over and finds Jason leaning back into his seat. Right, Alfred had asked him a question.

“Sorry, I spaced out for a second. I’m not allergic to anything,” Tim replies hastily.

Unfazed, Alfred turns the car onto the familiar winding road that contains both Drake Manor and Wayne Manor. “All right. And do you have a favorite type of cookie?”

He shrugs. “I’ll eat just about anything. I’m not very picky.”

“I didn’t ask what you would eat, Master Tim. I asked if you had a favorite type of cookie,” Alfred corrects smoothly. “The kitchen is well-stocked, so I can assure you that we certainly have the ingredients for whichever type of cookie you choose.”

Tim falls silent, chewing his lip contemplatively. Choosing a type of cookie is a lot of responsibility. What if Jason doesn’t like it? What if nobody else in Wayne Manor likes it but they have to awkwardly pretend that they do to avoid hurting Tim’s feelings?

“You really can’t go wrong with Alfred’s cooking. His cookies are the _best,”_ Jason interjects. “If you want recommendations, his chocolate chip cookies are great. He makes some mean snickerdoodles and white chocolate macadamia nut cookies too.”

“Chocolate chip sounds good,” Tim decides at last. “Thank you,” he adds quickly.

“You’re very welcome, Master Tim,” replies Alfred as he presses a button on the dashboard that causes the gates of Wayne Manor to open.

If Tim has ever visited Wayne Manor before, he doesn’t remember doing so. He’s seen more than a few mansions before, but he’d definitely remember the vast green expanse of the Waynes’ property and the imposing form of the manor itself. The Gothic architecture, all pointed arches and curving windows, almost feels as if it’s reaching into the sky to pull down clouds around the manor.

Tim’s parents always said that it’s rude to gape or stare. Instead, he glances at the grounds out of the corner of his eye.

“By the way,” Jason drawls, drawing Tim’s attention back to him, “Do you like dogs?”

“Yes, I do. Why do you ask?”

The car pulls in front of the main entrance of Wayne Manor. Like before, Alfred gets out of the car to open the car door for Tim and Jason.

“Thank you very much for driving us, Alfred,” Tim tells him as he straightens up, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.

“It’s my pleasure, Master Timothy,” Alfred replies before he climbs back into the car and drives off.

Instead of answering Tim’s question, Jason walks up and opens the front doors. A very excited German Shepherd darts out, bouncing in place as Jason leans over to run his hands down its sides.

“This is Ace. He’s about six years old and he is a very good boy,” Jason informs him solemnly. “Want to pet him?”

Tim nods and carefully approaches Ace, extending one hand for him to sniff. After a moment, Ace shoves his wet nose into Tim’s hand and gives it a satisfied lick. Taking this as acceptance of his presence, Tim scratches behind Ace’s ears. His tail wags slowly at first but quickly speeds up, especially once Tim starts scratching his chin with his other hand.

“You’re right,” Tim says, looking up at Jason. “He’s a very good boy.”

“Hear that, Ace? Tim thinks you’re a very good boy,” Jason coos as he pets Ace’s sides with both hands. “Who’s a good boy, Ace?”

Ace twists around to look at Jason and looks about as happy as a dog can look.

Jason gives Ace a few final scratches before he stands back up. “Let’s go inside and look at some books. Ace can come with us and keep us company.” Ace perks up at the sound of his name and Jason pats his head again.

“All right,” Tim agrees. His school uniform is covered in dog fur, which would normally drive his mother mad, but Tim finds that it doesn’t really bother him.

He lets Jason lead the way through the massive double-doors and into the foyer of the manor. They take a seemingly random door that leads to a hallway whose wood-paneled walls boast all sorts of art.

“Dad’s study’s this way,” Jason says, turning back to look at Tim. “That’s where he keeps all of his--”

“Hey, whatcha doing?” A door directly across from them slams open and someone with bright blue eyes, warm brown skin, and a blinding smile bursts out. Their face is oddly familiar. Tim must have seen them before somewhere--

Oh, that’s Nightwing without his mask. Or rather, that’s Richard Grayson, Bruce’s eldest son.

“Jay, you have a friend over?” He tilts his head curiously, peering at Tim. “Have we met before? You look familiar.”

Tim forces himself to unfreeze, though the sound of the slamming door still echoes through his head. Pasting a smile on his face, he extends one hand to Richard to shake. “Hi, I’m Timothy Drake. I live next door.”

“I’m Dick Grayson,” says Dick, smiling as he smoothly steps forward to shake Tim’s hand. He steps back and nudges the door closed with a soft click, much quieter than his explosive entrance. “So, what are you planning on doing?”

Jason rolls his eyes and turns to Tim. “Dick’s bored out of his mind. He has this nasty cut on his side that he got from falling asleep on a stapler. He just fell straight onto it like--”

With all of the grace of a professionally trained acrobat, Dick darts forward and lovingly gives Jason a noogie. Tim just stands there and blinks, unsure of what to do. Ace pads up to Tim and shoves his head into Tim’s hand, so he obligingly pats Ace’s head.

“Hey!” Jason protests, squirming in his brother’s grip. He does not, Tim notes, try to elbow him or use any of the combat moves that Tim knows he’s capable of.

It’s likely to protect Nightwing’s stitches, Tim notes absently. The man’s wounds weren’t one hundred percent life-threatening, but they were certainly serious. Reopening those wounds would not be a fun experience.

After one final noogie, Dick releases Jason and ruffles his hair. “In my defense, I didn’t fall asleep on a stapler. There may have been some sneaking out and alcohol involved, though.” He winks at Tim.

“He fell on a vase when he was sneaking back in,” Jason sighs. “I don’t know how, but he managed to shatter it in such a way that it stabbed him. Truly astonishing.”

Dick only grinned. “Don’t hate me because you ain’t me,” he sing-songs.

Jason mock-glares at him and runs a hand through his hair to smooth it. “Also, to answer your question, Tim and I were going to look at some of Bruce’s old mystery novels. Tim was fuckin’ terrifying at guessing the murderer when we were at book club, so I think he’ll like B’s old books.”

“Oh, sounds like fun! I used to read those with Bruce all the time when I was younger. If you want, Tim, I can show you some of my old favorites,” Dick offers.

The thought of spending time with Nightwing is a little bit terrifying but, at the same time, very cool. Tim nods and Dick beams, clapping his hands together.

“Great! Come on, I’ll show you where they are.” Despite his still-healing injury, Dick practically bounces down the hallway.

Jason and Tim follow him, albeit at a much calmer pace. Dick stops in front of a set of intimidating wooden double doors and pushes them open, revealing what must be Bruce Wayne’s study. Without skipping a beat, Dick makes a beeline for the towering bookshelves at the far end of the room.

As Dick scans the shelves, Jason flops down on one of the couches in the corner of the room. Tim sets his backpack on the floor and joins him, hands held carefully in his lap. Ace curls up on the rug at his feet, chin resting on his paws.

“Found them!” Dick declares and pulls out a number of books that he places on the coffee table in front of the couch. He grabs one from the stack and takes a seat on Jason’s other side. “Want me to read? I might be Jared, nineteen, and never learned how to read, but I can still do some solid voices.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “What are you going to say when you turn twenty?”

“That I’m Jared, twenty, and never learned how to read,” Dick says smoothly.

Jason snorts and turns to Tim. “Dick is a theater kid at heart. He does do some pretty good voices, if you’re fine with him crashing our hangout.”

Tim cracks a smile. “I’m fine if Dick reads.”

“Okay!” Dick chirps and leans back into the couch. Jason wastes no time in wriggling closer to Dick and leaning his head on his big brother’s shoulder as Dick opens Meredith Moore’s _The Finding Game_. It’s clearly well-loved-- the spine is cracked and some of the pages are dog-eared. Tim thinks of the pristine books in his parents’ office with rigid spines and unmarred pages. Most of the things in their office are too old or delicate for him to touch; he’s only allowed to handle whatever paperwork they ask him to fetch. Envious, he imagines running his hands over the pages of his mother’s copies of excavation reports before he quickly banishes the thought. Their rules exist for a reason.

As it turns out, Jason was right about Dick’s acting abilities. He does a different voice for each character and makes exaggerated faces as he speaks. Jason occasionally chimes in with commentary, but Tim mostly stays quiet and absorbs Dick’s telling of the story.

Forty pages in, Tim is getting restless. He’s been maintaining good posture for most of the reading, but his back is starting to hurt. Also, he’s pretty sure that he knows who the killer is, but it’s hard to tell if Dick will get mad at him if he voices his guess. “Am I allowed to guess the murderer?”

Jason looks over at Tim and snorts. “I brought you here to unleash you on a bunch of mystery books, remember?” He lightly boops Tim’s nose. Mystified, Tim nearly crosses his eyes trying to follow Jason’s finger. “Yeah, you’re allowed to guess the murderer. Who d’you think did it?”

Mollified, Tim picks at the edge of his sleeve as he thinks. “Probably Tom Harbott. If Casey Rogerson died, then his house would become public property and be dealt with by the state. When Harbott is cataloguing the worth of the house, then he could easily take a few items-- some of Casey’s jewels, maybe-- and nobody would know that they were missing. Plus, Harbott strikes me as kind of slimy.”

Both of the Wayne boys turn to look at him, but Tim stares at his hands instead of meeting their eyes. “I could be wrong, though. It’s just a gut feeling.”

“Jay’s right,” Dick says after a moment. “You _are_ really good at this. Nice work, Tim!”

Setting the book down in his lap, Dick reaches over and holds out one fist. Tim completes the fistbump and Dick wiggles his fingers in a jellyfish.

“Good job. I told you that you’re good at this shit,” Jason tells him cheerily.

Dick and Jason are both smiling at him and Tim isn’t quite sure what to do about it. Instead, he ducks his head as the tips of his ears heat up.

“Thanks,” he mumbles before clearing his throat and trying again. “I mean, thank you.”

“Now that you’ve figured out the ending, or do you want to switch to a new book?” Dick asks.

“I’m fine with whatever Jason wants to do,” Tim says quickly.

Jason raises an eyebrow at him. “Last I checked, Dick was asking you. I’m fine with whatever you pick.” He gently raps on Tim’s head with his knuckles.

Tim pauses, considering. His fingers toy with an unraveling thread on the sleeve of his school uniform. “Let’s keep reading this one,” he decides at last.

“Great!” Dick chirps, picking up the book again.

As he continues reading, Tim lets his spine gradually loosen until he’s leaning ever so slightly again Jason’s side. It doesn’t look like he minds, so it’s probably fine. Right? Between leaning against Jason and Ace sitting on his feet, Tim is pleasantly warm and comfortable.

At some point later, the smell of freshly baked cookies heralds Alfred’s entrance. He walks in with a platter of cookies and milk; Dick and Jason perk up immediately.

“You’re the best, Alfred,” Dick informs him fondly as he grabs a cookie. 

“Thank you, Alfred,” Tim tells him.

Mouth already full of cookies, Jason nods enthusiastically and gives Alfred a thumbs up.

“You’re very welcome, Master Timothy,” Alfred replies with a courteous smile. “Do let me know if you boys need anything else. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” He sets the tray down on the coffee table and departs the study.

Tim takes a cookie and settles back against the couch as he nibbles at it. It’s _very_ fucking good. He’s careful to keep crumbs from getting all over Bruce’s couch-- he wouldn’t want Jason and Dick to be on the receiving end of Bruce’s wrath if he comes home and finds his couch covered in crumbs.

Cookie in one hand, Dick picks up the story where he left off. Tim is content to sit with his hands clasped in his lap and lean back into the cushions while Jason wastes no time in using Dick’s shoulder as his own personal pillow. The floor behind them creaks as someone walks across it. Tensing, Tim immediately stops slouching.

“Hey, Bruce!” Dick calls, twisting around to beam at the man himself.

Bruce Wayne. Batman. The person who Tim has been following and surreptitiously photographing for the past few years.

The Batman suit must have platforms in it because the man before him is ever so slightly shorter than Tim expected. Granted, he’s definitely still over six feet tall, but something about the Batman suit makes him look bigger. More intimidating. Right now, Bruce is wearing a rumpled suit and has a five o’clock shadow.

“Hey, kids.” He circles around the couch so Tim doesn’t have to crane his neck to see him and grabs a cookie from the platter. Then he pauses. “Dick, are you bothering Jason and his friend?”

“Only a little bit,” Dick replies sunnily.

Bruce raises an eyebrow and Dick stands up sheepishly. “All right, all right. I’ll let them have their fun bonding time or whatever teens do these days.”

“You’re a teenager,” Jason calls at Dick’s retreating back as he bounces out of the room. In response, Dick dabs before disappearing into the hallway.

After Dick leaves, Bruce’s steel blue eyes gravitate towards Tim. “So, I take it that you’re Jason’s friend?”

Years of lessons drilled into Tim by his parents kick in. “Hi, Mr. Wayne. I’m Tim Drake. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He smiles a polite society smile at Bruce and leans forward to shake his hand.

Bruce’s calluses rub against his hand as they shake before Tim sits back down. “You don’t need to be so formal, Tim. Please, call me Bruce,” he says amiably.

“Tim and I are in the book club together. It turns out that he’s scary good at guessing the murderer in mystery novels, so I bribed him into coming over with some of your old books,” Jason informs him, leaning back into the couch.

Bruce nods thoughtfully. “Sounds like fun. What did you read?”

“The first book in _The Finding Game_. Tim figured out the murderer in forty pages,” Jason replies proudly.

“Damn, that’s pretty good,” he whistles and shakes his head before he smiles at Tim. “The first time I read it, it took me twice that to figure it out. Good job, Tim. So, how are you doing? I hope that my sons haven’t been giving you too much trouble.”

Jason sticks his tongue out at Bruce, who just raises his eyebrow and takes another bite out of a cookie.

“They haven’t been causing any trouble,” Tim reports, hands folded neatly on his lap. “And I’m well, thank you. How are you?”

For a split second, Bruce looks at Tim like he’s a rather interesting new puzzle. The look is quickly washed away by a smooth smile, leaving Tim questioning what he just saw. His answer was perfectly polite, so why did Bruce look so perplexed just now?

“Oh, work was work. Boring, but manageable.” Bruce runs a hand through his hair. “I met with some people interested in starting a few various social welfare programs in Crime Alley, so that was the highlight of my day.”

“Bruce, before I forget, I need to tell you--” Jason straightens, righteous fire burning in his eyes. Tim curls his fingers into the fabric of his pants as he resists the urge to shrink back. “Some douche in my English class insulted Zora Neale Hurston,” he announces to the room.

“Language,” Bruce says mildly.

“But B!” Jason protests, “He called her work boring. _Boring_! _Zora Neale Hurston_! Honestly, the audacity of that boy. He wouldn’t know good writing if it bit him in the butt. I nearly cried when I first read about the pear tree in _Their Eyes Were Watching God_. I swear, some people are incapable of grasping nuance.” He crosses his arms, huffing out an exaggeratedly grumpy sigh.

Bruce takes a contemplative bite of his cookie. “That really is a shame, but given what I remember of the… attitudes of some of the students at Gotham Academy, I can’t say that I’m surprised.”

“Bunch of privileged ass kids who’ve never experienced a single hardship in their lives,” Jason grumbles.

His words elicit a chuckle from Bruce. Tim reaches down and pats Ace’s head.

After a moment, Bruce’s attention switches back to Tim. “So, Tim,” he begins, “Do you think that your family would object to you staying for dinner? Alfred’s making lasagna. Or we can give you a ride home if you need one.”

Jason twists so he can nudge Tim’s leg with his foot. “You should have dinner with us, Alfred’s cooking is amazing.”

He really doesn’t want to impose, but since he’s been invited and Jason seems to want him there… “My parents are out of town right now, so they won’t mind.” Tim shrugs, smiling. “I’d love to stay for dinner.”

Jason flops back into the couch and pokes Tim with one foot. “Just don’t forget to text someone so your family doesn’t assume that you’ve been kidnapped or something,” he says around a mouthful of cookie.

“Will do,” Tim replies and shoves the remainder of his cookie into his mouth. 

Bruce’s phone buzzes and he glances down at it. “Ah, that’ll be Alfred calling us for dinner. Okay, everyone, on your feet. Go wash your hands before dinner. Jay, why don’t you show Tim where he can wash up?”

Jason shoots him a thumbs up and climbs to his feet, stretching his arms above his head. “Yep. Let’s go, I’m hungry. C’mon, Tim.”

Together, they huffle out of the study and down the hall to a bathroom. They take turns washing their hands, scrubbing carefully.

“Alfred will know if we don’t actually wash up,” Jason whispers ominously. “Alfred knows all.”

They finish washing their hands. To Tim’s surprise, Jason doesn’t lead him to the dining room. Instead, they head straight for a circular wooden table in the corner of the kitchen. Bruce is already carrying a still-steaming pan of lasagna to the table, Alfred trailing after him with a salad bowl. Ace lies on the floor next to the table, head down but ears perked. Dick wanders in a minute after Jason and Tim do and crouches next to Ace on the floor, scratching behind his ears.

“Dick, Jay, could you please set the table?” Bruce calls over to them.

“And wash your hands, please, Master Dick,” Alfred adds. Dick obediently trudges over to the sink and starts scrubbing his hands with soap and water.

Tim starts to follow Jason as he begins digging plates and utensils out of the cabinets. However, Bruce has finished setting down the lasagna and looks over at Tim from across the table. There’s a warm smile on his face.

“You don’t need to help them, Tim. You’re our guest,” Bruce says amicably. “Why don’t you go sit down, chum?”

Tim frowns slightly. “Are you sure? I’m happy to help.”

Bruce chuckles. “I’m sure. Dick and Jason can handle things on their own. Here, come sit down.” He takes a seat in one of the chairs arrayed around the table.

(It is, Tim notes, a corner seat and therefore lets Bruce watch the entire room. A smart, tactically sound decision. He would expect no less from Batman himself.)

After a moment of hesitation, Tim sits down two chairs away from Bruce. It keeps his back to the wall so nobody will accidentally startle him.

Dick and Jason return to the table, arms laden with plates, bowls, and silverware. They begin to set the table, placing plates around the circumference of the table.

“Which side is the fork supposed to go on again?” Dick peers at his handiwork.

“Does it matter? We’re gonna be shoving lasagna into our faces in five minutes,” Jason points out. “It’s just a fork.”

“Forks go on the left,” Bruce interjects, “But Jason is right, it’s not important right now.”

“All right, all right.” Setting down the last of the forks, Jason slides into the seat next to Tim and across from Bruce. Dick sits between Bruce and Jason.

“Are you joining us, Alfred?” Bruce calls over to Alfred, who is busying himself with something on the other side of the kitchen.

“Please, start without me. I’ll be there momentarily,” Alfred replies smoothly as he pours the remaining pasta sauce into some tupperware.

“All right, Alf,” says Bruce before turning his attention back to the table. “Guests first. Tim, what would you like?”

Tim blinks at the array of dishes in front of him. There’s a salad with some sort of stuff in it, the delicious-looking lasagna, and roasted green beans. Normally, his meals consist of either the dishes that Mrs. McIlvaine freezes for him or some sort of instant food.

He isn’t quite sure where to start with the food currently in front of him, so Tim pauses before requesting a little bit of everything. Bruce takes his plate and loads it up before passing it back to him.

“Could someone please pass me the salad?” Dick asks.

Eyes glinting, Jason sits up a little straighter and crows, “My salad days, when I was green in judgment: cold in blood, to say as I said then!”

With a dramatic sigh, Dick turns to Tim. “He does this every time I ask for some salad,” he stage-whispers before adding in a louder voice, “Really, Jay? Right in front of my salad?” Dick yelps as Jason kicks him under the table. “Hey!”

“Boys, you know the rules. No fighting at dinner.” Hardly fazed, Bruce passes Jason the salad bowl. “Here you go, Jaylad.”

“Thanks, B,” Jason chirps.

Tim stays silent and takes a bite of his lasagna. “Oh,” he says quietly, drawing the attention of everyone at the table. “This is really good.”

Jason beams at him. “See, I told you that Alfred’s a good cook!”

“The best,” Bruce agrees as he takes another bite of his salad.

Alfred chooses that moment to take a seat at the table between Jason and Bruce. “Thank you, Master Bruce. It is always a pleasure to cook for you all.” He reaches for the serving spoon in the lasagna, but Bruce beats him to it.

“Here, allow me,” Bruce offers. “What would you like?”

As Bruce serves Alfred, a foot pokes Tim’s shin under the table. Tim looks over to see Jason still grinning at him.

“You know, if you come hang out over here again, you could eat more of Alfred’s cooking,” Jason points out.

Tim takes a sip of water to hide his smile. “That’s true. I’ll have to see what my schedule is like.”

Leaning forward in his seat, Bruce’s curious eyes land on Tim’s. “Jason said that you’re also part of the book club. How are you liking it so far?”

Shrugging, Tim focuses on cutting his green beans. “I’ve only been to one meeting so far, but it seems interesting.”

Silverware clinks against Bruce’s plate. “From what Jason’s told me about it, it certainly sounds fun. I take it that you’re a big reader?”

“To an extent. My parents encouraged me to join, actually.” Tim risks a glance up at Bruce only to find the man staring straight at him. Nope, bad idea. He gives Bruce a polite smile and goes back to picking at his lasagna.

“Are they into literature, then?”

“Not really. They’re archaeologists.” Tim takes a bite of his lasagna. After he swallows, he adds, “It’s primarily to prepare my resume for college, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to be well-read during dinner parties.”

“Ah, I see.” A pause. “Your parents work for Drake Industries, right?”

“Yeah. Dad is CEO and Mom is the chief business officer. They want me to be the CEO after Dad.”

“If memory serves, I’ve met them at a few galas.” He shoots a sidelong glance at Tim. “So you want to be CEO, then? You must be a bright kid.”

Tim shrugs half-heartedly. “It would be good for the company,” he says as he pushes food around his plate.

Bruce nods thoughtfully. Thankfully, he doesn’t comment further, allowing the conversation to fade into the scrape of silverware against plates. The rest of dinner passes in relative silence, save for Dick and Jason’s quiet debate on the merits of different Legend of Zelda games. At last, Tim checks his watch and finds that it’s nearly seven-thirty.

“I should probably head out soon,” he says to the table. “It’s getting late.”

Jason rises from his chair, prompting Ace to stand up too. “I can walk you back,” he offers, leaning over to pet Ace’s head.

Tim frowns slightly. “Are you sure? You really don’t have to, I’ll be perfectly fine on my own.”

“I’ll go fetch your backpack, Master Tim,” Alfred says, striding out the door and into the hallway.

Jason shrugs. “It’s all good, my dude. It’s either that or I condemn you to a long, boring walk back home without my wonderful presence. But you can walk back on your own if you want time to think or something, it’s no big deal.”

Tim pauses. He would hate to impose, but Jason wouldn’t offer it if he didn’t want to do it, right? Besides, Jason is pretty cool. He’s _Robin_. “Okay,” he agrees finally. “That’s fine with me.”

Dick claps Jason on the shoulder. “Don’t get kidnapped!”

Tim hesitates for a moment and turns to Bruce. “Thank you for having me, Mr. W-- I mean, Bruce.” He smiles politely. “I had a lot of fun.”

Bruce smiles, but something in his eyes looks sad. “We enjoyed having you over, Tim. You should come visit more often. With Dick over in Blüdhaven, the house just isn’t as lively as it used to be. Besides, I think Jason could use the company.” The corner of his eyes crinkle and he lightly claps Tim’s shoulder. “I’ll see you later, sport.”

“Have a good night, Bruce.”

With that, Tim turns and joins Jason, who was hovering outside the kitchen door. Together, they trot through the manor. Alfred is waiting for them at the front door of the manor and hands them Tim’s backpack.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Tim tells him.

“It’s my pleasure, Master Tim. I hope to see more of you in the future.” Alfred smiles at him, mustache twitching.

The night air is cool against Tim’s face as they step outside. It’s already dark outside, which might give the Bats more time to patrol Gotham, but it also means that Tim nearly trips over a previously invisible divot in the ground.

“Whoah,” Jason says, one hand shooting out to steady Tim before he immediately retracts it. “Careful. Don’t pull a Dick.”

“There aren’t any vases out here for me to fall onto,” Tim points out.

Throwing his head back, Jason laughs a full-belly laugh. “Shit, I forgot that I told you that.”

Hiding a smile, Tim shrugs and stares at the ground as he walks. Jason leans over and lightly knocks their shoulders together. “You should come over more often. Ever since Dick moved out and started living on his own last year, I haven’t had enough people to bother. And I mean, there’s B and Alfred, but we had to teach both of them what _yeet_ means. It’s just not the same.”

“I don’t think my parents know what _yeet_ is either,” Tim muses. “Mrs. Mac might, though.”

“Who’s Mrs. Mac?” Jason asks curiously.

“Oh, she’s our maid. She usually comes by a few times a week, but I don’t see her that often, so I wouldn’t really have a chance to teach her about memes.” Tim pauses. “It wouldn’t be proper, anyways.”

Jason hops over another divot in the ground and lands with a grunt. “What d’you mean by proper?”

Shrugging, Tim picks at the end of his sleeve. “I don’t know. It would make me look kind of silly, you know?”

“I dunno, man. I’ve seen Bruce do plenty of silly and ridiculous stuff. He likes drinking milk directly from the carton, so Alfred always has to set aside a carton specifically for him so he won’t get his nasty Bruce germs all over our milk.”

Tim blinks in surprise and glances over at Jason. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Huh,” Tim says. “I mean, I don’t know if my parents drink milk directly from the carton. I don’t think they would, but I don’t know.” At Jason’s curious look, he adds, “They travel a lot, so they’re not always home.”

“Ah, got it,” Jason says, but there’s a thought glint in his eye that Tim doesn’t entirely like the look of, so he forces himself to stop talking. After all, he wouldn’t want the Waynes to get the wrong idea. Sure, Mrs. Mac only drops by on weekdays and she’s typically gone by the time that Tim gets home from school, but it’s really not a big deal. Tim lives in comfort, has access to food and water, and has the freedom to work as Gotham’s Shadow. Plus, he has parents who love him. It’s a good arrangement.

“You know,” Jason says casually, “If you’re ever bored, you should come hang out at my house. If you’re over for dinner, you can eat more of Alfred’s cooking.”

Tim contemplates the idea of getting more of Alfred’s cooking. It is, he decides, a thoroughly good idea. “That does sound nice,” he admits. “I don’t want to cause any trouble for him, though.”

They hop up the front steps of Drake Manor and are left standing on the porch. Under the porch lights, Jason’s face is uncharacteristically serious. “You’re never trouble, Tim,” he says gently. “Seriously, come hang out with us. It’ll be fun.” He offers one hand for a fist bump and Tim lightly knocks his knuckles against Jason’s.

“By the way,” Jason adds, “I’ll send you Bruce, Dick, and Alfred’s numbers just in case your parents are ever away and you need something when they’re not home.”

Tim doesn’t want to bother them with his problems, but then again, it might be useful to be able to contact them. Another resource, as it were. “Okay, cool.”

Jason nods and hops down the porch steps. “Well, I’ll see you later. Peace out!” he chirps.

“Good night,” Tim responds before unlocking the massive front door of Drake Manor.

He glances over his shoulder and finds Jason looking at him over his and waving enthusiastically. Tim raises a hand in response before slipping into his house and shutting the door. His footsteps echo across the white marble floor as he heads up to his room. The sound of his bedroom door clicking shut punctuates the quiet but otherwise, the house was as deathly quiet as before he arrived.

* * *

It’s a Friday night, so Tim can stay out a little bit later in Gotham without sacrificing his sleep. He’s curled up on a roof two blocks away from the Escabedo Cartel’s warehouses when his phone buzzes. Tim pulls it out of his backpack and finds a message from Jason.

Jason [08/28, 11:05 PM]: _3 phone numbers shared_

Jason [08/28, 11:05 PM]: first number is bruce, second is dick, third is alfred

Tim saves the numbers to his contacts and types out a reply.

Tim [08/28, 11:06 PM]: Thanks. I’ll let you know when I’m free to hang out this week.

He shoves his phone back into his backpack, and creeps back to the edge of the rooftop. The streets won’t quiet down for a good few hours and until then, Tim will be there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely beta [S](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolateandsilver) for being amazing. <3
> 
> Check out my tumblrs for more yelling:  
> [writing blog](https://distracted-dragon-age.tumblr.com/)  
> [DCU/batfam sideblog](https://batfam-chaos.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Feel free to leave theories, feedback, and/or reactions in the comments! I love talking about this fic. :D
> 
> As always, thank you all for reading!! <3 <3


	4. grab me by my ankles, i've been flying for too long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick and Jason quickly incorporate Tim into their antics. Unfortunately for Tim, trouble is afoot. 
> 
> Never let it be said that Tim Drake has a normal sense of fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Sky Full of Song by Florence + the Machine.
> 
> I graduated from college today!! I decided to post this chapter to celebrate. Enjoy! :D
> 
> Last updated on 07/20/2020.
> 
>  **CW:** guns

On Monday, Tim steps into the debate team’s assigned classroom during his lunch period. Multiple heads swivel to stare at him and Tim slips on his best polite smile.

“Ah, hello there!” A blond-haired boy hops off the desk he was perched on at the front of the classroom. “If you’re here for the debate team, then you’re in the right place.”

“Good to hear,” Tim replies and sticks out his hand as the other student approaches him. “I’mTim Drake.”

They shake hands. “I’m Patrick Weston. You’re the Tim Drake of Drake Industries, right?”

“That’s right.” Maintaining his polite smile hurts Tim’s face.

Patrick grins and claps Tim on his back, forcing him to hide his flinch. “Fantastic! You’ll be a great addition to the team. Come over here and I’ll introduce you to everyone. That’s Abigail Mercer of Mercer Incorporated…”

He proceeds to introduce him to several students who Tim has known since kindergarten on account of them running in the same social circles. In short, they’re all a bunch of rich brats.

“So, what kinds of cars do your parents have?” asks Hunter Smith of the Smith Corporation.

Rich, _pretentious_ brats.

Tim does not like debate team.

* * *

“Do you like Super Smash Bros?” Jason asks him as they sprawl out on the couch in the den later that day.

Tim frowns. “I’ve heard of that, but I’ve never played it.”

A delighted grin spreads across Jason’s face.

Twenty minutes later, Lucina whacks Samus off the stage with a swing of her sword.

“Fuck!” Jason shouts, controller flailing as he tries to avoid the bomb that Tim planted below the respawn platform.

(“ _Language_ , Master Jason!” Alfred shouts from somewhere down the hall.)

“Kick his ass, Tim!” Dick cheers from his seat on the couch behind them.

(“Master _Richard_! Do not encourage them!”)

“Why are you jerking your controller around like that?” Tim asks calmly as Lucina whacks Samus with her sword again. “It’s not like it’ll help you win.”

“Shit, fuck fuck fuck,” Jason hisses as a Smash Ball appears on the stage. “I’m coming for you, Timmers. Just you wait.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall,” Jason retorts as Samus slashes at the Smash Ball.

“Okay, Shakespeare,” Dick cackles as he throws pieces of popcorn at the backs of both of their heads.

* * *

Tim tries to spend a handful of hours every night keeping an eye on the Escabedo Cartel’s warehouses. Between homework, gymnastics classes, martial arts classes, working on his latest Jeffrey Anderson draft, and hanging out with Jason and Dick, he doesn’t make it out to Gotham every single night.

As far as he can tell, nothing out of the ordinary has happened at the row of the Escabedo’s warehouses on Seventh Street. Still, something in his gut nags at him. The Odessa mob and the Escabedo Cartel have worked too closely together in the past for Tim to brush them off, especially when it comes to the Odessa’s connections to apparent arms smuggling.

There is nothing to do now but to lay low and wait. And if Tim occasionally spends an extra thirty minutes at the end of the night waiting near one of the Bats’ usual patrol routes for a glimpse of a cape, well. Nobody has to know but him.

* * *

Tim [10/02, 12:15 PM]: Do you want to hang out on Wednesday at 5?

Tim [10/02, 12:17 PM]: I’ll have to do homework, but we can play video games or something with Dick if he’s around.

Jason [10/02, 12:33 PM]: heck yeah!!

Jason [10/02, 12:34 PM]: that’s ok i have homework too. we make dickie help us with it

Tim [10/02, 12:40 PM]: Cool! :)

* * *

They end up doing homework at the kitchen table as Dick takes a nap. Jason offers to help Tim with some of his algebra homework, but Tim politely turns him down. He’s smart, he can figure it out on his own.

Afterwards, they end up playing Mario Party in Jason’s room. Dick wanders over after his nap and flops down next to Jason so he can heckle them. Somehow, Dick isn’t groggy from his nap. Maybe all vigilantes train themselves to not be groggy after their naps.

Jason and Dick insist that he should stay for dinner. Alfred makes a delightful roast chicken and between the two Wayne boys, dinner is fairly entertaining.

Bruce, conspicuously, is missing. Dick mentions a last-minute work trip, but Tim doesn’t worry too much. The news earlier that day announced that the Justice League is fighting some giant robots down in Kentucky. They’ve dealt with worse in the past; Bruce will be fine.

* * *

**Chat: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, and 1 other person**

Jason [10/04, 10:45 PM]: @tim have you ever watched princess mononoke??

Tim [10/04, 10:56 PM]: I don’t think so, why?

Jason [10/04, 10:57 PM]: one other question: are you free on sunday afternoon

Tim [10/04, 10:59 PM]: Yes?

Jason [10/04, 11:00 PM]: great. you, me, and dickie are going to have a movie marathon

Jason [10/04, 11:00 PM]: alfred will keep us well stocked with snacks

Dick [10/04, 11:03 PM]: alfred hates having junk food in the house, so i’m sneaking in contraband [ice cream emoji] [chocolate emoji] [worm emoji]

Jason [10/04, 11:03 PM]: what’s with the worm emoji??? are you planning on eating worms?????

Dick [10/04, 11:04 PM]: sour gummy worms are the best snack

Jason [10/04, 11:07 PM]: you’re wrong but okay

Jason [10/04, 11:07 PM]: @tim so, are you in??

Tim [10/04, 11:40 PM]: Sorry for the delay! That sounds like fun.

Tim [10/04, 11:40 PM]: Want to do noon on Sunday?

Jason [10/04, 11:47 PM]: yea that works for me

Dick [10/04, 11:51 PM]: 2 sounds perfect! [sparkling heart emoji] [sparkling heart emoji] [sparkling heart emoji] [film reel emoji] [popcorn emoji]

* * *

To: Timothy Jackson Drake <tjdrake@drake.com>

From: Janet Lynn Drake <jldrake@drake.com>

_October 5th, 1:31 AM (6 hours ago)_

Subject: Re: Change of plan

Congratulations, Tim!

Can you check the bookshelf in my office for a red book about Incan textiles and tell me the title and author? I need the information ASAP.

Love,

Mom

* * *

To: Janet Lynn Drake <jldrake@drake.com>

From: Timothy Jackson Drake <tjdrake@drake.com>

_October 5th, 7:05 AM (just now)_

Subject: Re: Change of plan

Thank you, Mom!

The book’s title is _Methods and Traditions Behind Incan Textiles_ by Samanthe Rowe. Let me know if you need anything else.

Love you!

Sincerely,

Tim

* * *

His parents don’t call that week. Tim bikes to school, does his homework, and hangs out with Jason and Dick. He attends his gymnastics lessons and martial arts classes. Mrs. Mac comes by and leaves meals in the fridge for him.

Drake Manor remains empty, save for Tim wandering about like a ghost.

* * *

Saturday night finds Tim crouched on a rooftop next to the Escabedo Cartel’s warehouses. The three warehouses are identical hulking masses of concrete and metal roofing. At first glance, their layers of peeling paint blend right in with the rest of the buildings in Crime Alley. Upon a second glance, however, the warehouses don’t bear any of the broken windows or crumbling roofs that are trademarks of neglected buildings. Of course they wouldn’t store their product in an unsecured building.

The Escabedo Cartel is many things, but stupid has never been one of them.

Tim doesn’t know enough about the warehouses’ alarm systems to risk sneaking in to catch a glimpse of their interiors, so he’s stuck watching from the outside. Watching and waiting. It’s one of the worst parts of surveillance. He has to sit on a cold rooftop in the middle of the night and wait for something-- anything-- interesting to happen. Most likely, nothing will happen and he’ll eventually go home so he can wrap himself in a million blankets. Sometimes, though--

Sometimes a mysterious black van will pull up next to the warehouse. _Jackpot_ , Tim thinks.

The van parks in front as the front doors of the warehouse open. One person steps out of the van and Tim zooms in his camera to get a good picture of them. In the dim light of the streetlights, he can just barely make out what looks like tattoos of epaulettes peeking out from underneath the person’s shirt. He doesn’t immediately recognize their face, but their tattoos indicate a high-ranking member of the Russian mafia. Someone from the Odessa mob, perhaps?

He holds his breath and snaps pictures as several people carry cardboard boxes out of the warehouse and load them into the truck. It’s impossible to tell what’s inside, but it’s probably nothing good. After all, why else would they go to the trouble of loading unmarked boxes into a van after midnight?

An unfamiliar man steps out of the warehouse and walks over to the person with the epaulette tattoos. He grabs something from his pocket and holds it out to the man-- money, maybe? Tim shifts, trying to get a better angle, when his foot strikes the metal shell of the HVAC unit to his left.

The clang rings out, unnaturally loud in Tim’s ears. Multiple heads swivel to look up at the roof, but Tim doesn’t stick around to see if they pull out their guns. He’s grabbing his things and getting the fuck out of there.

With clumsy hands, Tim shoves the lens cap back onto his camera. He tosses the entire thing into his backpack before leaping onto the next rooftop and starting to run.

Tim was born and raised in Gotham. He is intimately familiar with the sound of gunshots. Still, he’s never been the intended target before. When he hears the familiar _pop pop pop_ of shots being fired, his heart rises into his through. He has a tiny canister of pepper spray and a Swiss army knife, but neither of those things will help him here. Right now, what Tim needs to do is run _._

And so he does.

Tim _runs_. He’s no Batman, but he’s spent years sneaking around Gotham. These rooftops, these interlocking slabs of concrete and brick, of metal and pigeon shit, are familiar territory. His feet fly over the rooftops until suddenly, they don’t.

Around four blocks away from the Escabedo’s warehouses, he jumps across a narrow alley to reach the next roof. It’s a routine jump, one he’s done many times before, but then his ankle buckles when he lands and all of his weight goes onto it and he’s falling. If he wasn’t wearing a backpack, he could roll and distribute the momentum. But Tim is wearing a backpack and his backpack contains his camera.

Tim will _not_ risk breaking his camera.

So he holds out his arms the way that he was taught in his martial arts classes so the force of the fall will be distributed from his hands to his elbows. Tim falls and hits the rough concrete roof with a _thump._

For a moment, he’s dimly aware of his throbbing ankle plus a stinging knee and hands. The knee and hands are just scraped, he thinks. His ankle is another matter entirely, but he doesn’t have time to check. Out of the corner of his eye, he can just barely see what looks like a black van.

Tim is back up and running within seconds, arms pumping as he sprints towards home. He winces as he vaults himself over the narrow divide between Park Avenue to Fifth Street, bending his knees to absorb the shock of the landing. Normally, he’d be able to make that jump without much thought, but now, well.

As he runs, the pain in his ankle sharpens from dull burning into something more painful. The sound of the earlier gunshots ricochet around his skull and sink into his bones. Still, Tim can’t stop. He sticks to his more well-hidden routes, careful to keep out of sight of the roads below. Tim suspects that he lost his trail three blocks ago, but it’s hard to tell. The only solution is to keep running. He ignores the pain in his ankle, shoving it into the back of his mind.

Tim runs for hours, for days, until at last the close-knit mesh of buildings begins to thin as he nears the edge of the city. He slows and surveys the streets around him, but they’re largely quiet. No black van and no disgruntled mobsters.

He scurries down a fire escape, his ankle protesting with every step. Gotham’s worn streets have never felt as reassuring beneath his feet as they do in this moment.

Mindful of his apparent lack of pursuers, he slows his pace and tries to hide his growing limp. There’s no point in attracting attention when he’s only just managed to evade the people chasing him. Still, every flicker of a street light makes him jump and look over his shoulder. Surely that isn’t unusual behavior-- after all, this is Gotham, right?

Tim grits his teeth and walks until the concrete sprawl of the city fades into well-manicured green lawns. Sweat dribbles down his back and his ankle feels like it’s about to give out. At long last, Tim leans against a street light to take weight off of his ankle and pulls out his phone to call a cab. His hands are shaking, he notes absently. That’s probably not good.

Hopefully the cab driver will believe that he’s just a rich kid returning from a friend’s house. Tim pulls down the hood of his hoodie and tries to coax his hair into not looking like he just spent the past hour running for his life.

It takes maybe ten minutes for the cab to arrive, but it feels like centuries. Tim smiles at the driver, tells her his address, and generally does his best to not look like he’s dying.

The ride is short and silent; his driver must have picked up on his reluctance to speak right now. She drops him off just outside the gates to Drake Manor and he hands her a wad of twenties. Tim punches in the key to the gates and watches as they swing open, revealing Drake Manor’s long driveway.

Whose idea was it to make their driveway so long?

 _This is going to suck_ , Tim thinks savagely.

For a while, time becomes meaningless. It passes relatively unnoticed, save for the constant throb of Tim’s ankle. He’s dying. He must be dying. Only the fear of someone else seeing him keeps him from crawling all the way to the front door.

By the time that Tim reaches the front door, his breathing is ragged. From his shin down, his leg feels like it was dipped in magma and then shot. He’s kind of surprised that his foot hasn’t fallen off yet. It takes him longer than usual to unlock the front door, thanks to his shaking hands. Tim manages to haul himself inside and shut the door behind himself. He leans his back against it for a moment, breathing hard, before he slowly slides to the floor

Why does everything suck? Why can’t his body just do stuff and not break?

He sits there for a bit as he lets his breathing slow into something resembling normal. His ankle throbs in time with his heartbeat and it takes him a moment to remember that he keeps an emergency bottle of painkillers in his backpack for time such as this.

Tim digs out two ibuprofen-- good for reducing pain and swelling, the bottle says-- and swallows them dry. His head thunks gently against the door as he leans back and stares at the absurdly large living room. There’s no way that he’s dragging himself upstairs, but every bathroom should have a guest toothbrush and toothpaste. At least he can practice good dental hygiene while his ankle is actively trying to murder him.

Then there’s the matter of making it to the bathroom.

His creative solution is to drag himself over to one of the dining chairs and rest the knee of his injured leg on it. Between his good leg and the chair, he manages to awkwardly shuffle himself over to the bathroom nestled next to the living room. He flicks the lights on with one hand and leans over to root around for the spare toothbrush and toothpaste below the sink.

When he straightens, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Surprise, surprise: Tim looks like shit. His hair is damp with sweat and sticks up strangely, no thanks to the hood of his hoodie. Tim’s normally pale skin has gone downright ashy and his expression is dead tired. He also finds that his little close encounter with the rooftop had not only torn a hole in his jeans ( _rude_!), but it also left him with a nasty skinned knee and bloody palms.

The wounds seem to have mostly clotted, but there are still shining patches of wet blood. Tim really hopes that he didn’t get blood all over his front door.

Too tired to frown, Tim brushes his teeth and sets about his business. He ends up rolling up the leg of his jeans and washing out his knee in the tub, wincing at the sting of hot water. His bloodied palms get the same treatment-- after all it’s easier to wash blood out of the tub with the showerhead than the sink. Tim smears some antibiotic ointment on his now-clean scrapes and covers them with band-aids that he found beneath the sink. He has no idea if they’ll be enough, but it’ll have to do for now.

Before he awkwardly shuffles out of the bathroom, he sticks his head under the running faucet and drinks like a dog from a hose. His parents would be livid if they saw him right now, but Tim is too exhausted and in pain to give a single fuck.

Tim fetches an ice pack from the freezer and tea towel before he turns to the living room and frowns. His badly skinned knee and palms might not be bleeding badly anymore, but Tim is certain that there’s at least a medium amount of dried blood on his clothes. He’d rather not risk sleeping on the couch and smearing blood on it. Although Tim has learned many skills during his years of gallivanting around Gotham at night, he still isn’t entirely sure how to get blood out of upholstery.

White blankets, though, can be bleached. The floor can be scrubbed. At this point, sleeping on the floor is looking more and more like an attractive option.

Tim shuffles around the living room with his chair, grabbing white blankets from the back of sofas. Finally, he picks a spot in front of his favorite couch and sets his sneakers next to it. He lays out the fluffiest-looking blanket before wrapping the others around him. His backpack goes under his foot to elevate it-- he’s pretty sure that he read somewhere that you’re supposed to do that-- and he sandwiches the ice pack between his foot and his backpack. An inelegant solution, but it’ll get the job done.

He closes his eyes and the throbbing in his foot abates slightly. It still feels like a bear is trying to chew his leg off, but the night’s adrenaline has long since worn off and Tim is _exhausted_.

* * *

Tim grabs sleep in short snatches where he sleeps like a rock until the pain in his foot wakes him up. It’s not the best situation, but it’s the only one he has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I can no longer say that no Timbos were harmed in the making of this fic....
> 
> As usual, thank you to my lovely beta reader, [S](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolateandsilver)!
> 
> Check out my tumblrs for more content:  
> [writing blog](https://distracted-dragon-age.tumblr.com/)  
> [DCU/batfam sideblog](https://batfam-chaos.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Thank you all for reading!! <3


	5. when i'm sinking like a stone at least i know i'm not alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim's plans for movie night go about as well as one would expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Deep Water by American Authors. It's such a good song for this fic!!! I would highly recommend listening to it. 
> 
> Last updated on 07/20/2020.
> 
>  **CW:** descriptions of mild injuries (nothing super graphic)

In the morning, it feels like Tim was run over by a truck. He’s stiff and sore and it _sucks_. His ankle still hurts, but mainly when he tries to move it or touch it. If he leaves it alone, it should be okay. Mostly.

Tim grabs the dining chair that he abandoned last night and first shuffles over to the bathroom. Washing his face makes him feel a tiny bit better, but not by much. He stops by the kitchen on his way back to the floor to fetch a fresh ice pack and a box of cereal.

With a sigh, Tim returns to his blanket nest. He takes two more ibuprofen, replaces the ice pack on his ankle, takes careful sips from the water bottle in his backpack, and tries not to feel miserable. It doesn’t work.

By some miracle, his phone isn’t dead. The closest outlet is way farther away than Tim feels like moving, so he plugs it into his emergency portable charger. The time flashes across his lock screen: 11:14 AM. Below, he has multiple unread messages from Jason and Dick.

**Chat: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, and 1 other person**

Dick [10/07, 10:03 AM]: r u ready for some FUN 2day???

Dick [10/07, 10:03 AM]: [film reel emoji] [popcorn emoji] [dancing man emoji] [dancing man emoji] [dancing man emoji] [grinning emoji] [worm emoji] [popcorn emoji]

Jason[10/07, 10:05 AM]: why can’t you stop being a morning person and be grumpy in the mornings like the rest of us?

Oh, right. He’s supposed to watch movies with Jason and Dick today. There’s no way that they’re not going to notice the state of his ankle-- or the rest of him, for that matter. Tim keeps scrolling through their old texts.

Dick [10/07, 10:06 AM]: looks like somebodys jelly [eyes emoji] [jello emoji]

Jason [10/07, 10:10 AM]: that’s not even a jelly emoji, that’s clearly jello

Dick [10/07, 10:14 AM]: sounds like somebody doesn’t want any worms

Dick [10/07, 10:14 AM]: [worm emoji] [worm emoji] [worm emoji] [worm emoji] [worm emoji]

Jason [10/07, 10:16 AM]: keep your worms

Jason [10/07, 10:17 AM]: the miserable have no other medicine but only worms

Dick [10/07, 10:18 AM]: ok boomer

Jason [10/07, 10:19 AM]: oh worm?

Dick [10/07, 10:25 AM]: [crying emoji] [heart emoji] [sparkling heart emoji] [pleading eyes emoji] [worm emoji]

Dick [10/07, 10:26 AM]: i’m so proud

Tim grabs a handful of cheerios and shoves it into his mouth as he types out a message. He doesn’t _want_ to cancel but if any of the Waynes see his ankle, then they’re going to start asking questions. If he texts them now saying that he might not make it because he might be sick and then sends a follow up text later saying that he’s actually sick, then it’ll seem like the natural progression of illness. That won’t be suspicious, right?

Tim [10/07, 11:20 AM]: I might not make it today. I’m not feeling well, but I’ll let you know how it goes.

There, sent. He turns his phone on silent and leaves it face down on the floor next to him. With a sigh, Tim pulls the blankets around himself once more and snuggles into his nest. It’s too late in the day for him to go back to sleep, but maybe he can close his eyes for a while.

For a while, he drifts on the edge of sleep and consciousness. His ankle hurts too much for him to fall fully asleep, but at least he’s able to rest.

The quiet air is broken by loud knocking on the front door. Tim grumbles and pulls the blankets up to his chin, burrowing deeper into his nest. However, the knocking only grows more insistent.

What do they think he’s going to do, walk over to the door and answer it? Ha.

After a minute, the knocking ceases and he can just barely hear faint squabbling outside. He would be concerned that the people from last night had finally found them if not for two reasons: first, they wouldn’t knock if they were coming to kill him and second, they definitely wouldn’t be arguing outside if they were coming to kill him.

Besides, those voices sound vaguely familiar.

The front door swings open. Hey, didn’t Tim lock the door behind himself when he came home last night?

“Tim?” Jason calls. The door swings shut with a soft click.

A second later, Dick’s voice chimes in. “Tim? Are you alive?”

“I’m here,” Tim says, not bothering to turn over to face them.

“Tim! There you are, we were worried about you,” Dick exclaims.

Footsteps approach him-- exaggerated for his benefit, surely-- and then the Wayne boys enter his field of vision. Their eyes sweep over him as they catalogue the situation. (Ah, the wonders of Bat training.) Tim blinks up at them and yawns so wide that his jaw cracks.

“Hey,” he says, not bothering to move from his blanket nest.

“Hey there,” Jason says casually. “We got worried about you when you said that you were sick and didn’t answer any of our calls, and I know that your parents are still out and can’t keep an eye on you, so we came over to make sure that you didn’t die or something. What are you doing on the floor?” He steps closer and lightly nudges the mass of blankets with his foot.

Unfortunately for Tim, the spot that Jason chooses to nudge happens to be where Tim’s injured foot is.

Tim just barely manages to keep himself from shouting. What comes out of his mouth instead sort of resembles a choked-off groan or yelp. Immediately, both boys are kneeling next to him, concern written all over their faces as Tim blinks away the sudden tears from his eyes.

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry--” Jason begins, distraught, but Dick quiets him with a look.

“Tim,” Dick says, voice firm but gentle. “Where are you hurt?”

He refuses to look away until Tim hoarsely replies, “Left foot.”

Dick scoots so he’s crouched next to Tim’s feet while Jason shifts so he’s sitting next to Tim’s head. He glances down and wordlessly offers a reassuring smile as Dick peels back the blankets covering Tim’s foot.

“I’m going to take your sock off and take a look at your foot, okay?” Dick glances up at him, eyes searching Tim’s face. Only when Tim nods does Dick start peeling off Tim’s sock. “Sorry,” he says when Tim whines a little as Dick’s gentle movements produce a jolt of pain. Tim hopes that his feet don’t reek from running around yesterday, but Dick doesn’t even flinch.

“Man, foot injuries suck,” Jason says conversationally, voice uncharacteristically gentle. “Have I told you about that one time that I sprained my ankle? So I had just moved in with Bruce and was trying to learn how to do a handstand--”

Once, when Tim was just starting his career as the Bats’ personal paparazzo, Robin-- Jason-- found a litter of kittens behind a dumpster. Tim watched as Robin coaxed each kitten out from behind that dumpster. It took nearly forty-five minutes, but Robin’s voice stayed soft and reassuring the whole time.

It’s with that voice that Jason is using with him now. The voice that he’s heard Robin use countless times over the years to coax injured animals into the open and comfort scared children. Tim has to admit, it’s strangely effective at keeping every single muscle in his body from locking up. His story probably has something to do with it too; Tim latches onto it to the best of his ability and tries to focus on Jason’s words instead of his ankle’s painful throbbing.

Dick finally finishes the excruciatingly slow task of removing Tim’s sock without hurting him. When he sees Tim’s foot, he hisses in sympathy. “Oh, Tim,” he whispers sadly. “What did you do?”

“Landed weirdly on my foot,” Tim replies, closing his eyes. “On the stairs.” The lie burns in his chest, but they either don’t notice or choose to not push.

The blankets ensconcing him shift and Jason whistles. “Ouch,” he remarks with forced lightness. “That looks painful.”

“Can you wiggle your toes for me, Tim?” Dick asks. Tim does so. “Okay, good. It doesn’t look like you have nerve damage. I’m going to touch your foot a bit to make sure that there isn’t anything obviously broken. Is that okay? I don’t want to accidentally jar a broken bone when we take you back to Wayne Manor.”

“Okay,” Tim says quietly, fingers tangling in his blankets.

He’s sure that Dick is being as careful as possible, but it still hurts when he presses certain parts of Tim’s foot. Biting his lip, Tim sets his face and tries to stay quiet. He’s not-- he’s not a baby, he can handle this. When Dick lightly prods a particularly tender part of Tim’s ankle, he can’t keep himself from yelping.

“Sorry, I promise I’m almost done,” Dick says apologetically.

“You’re doing great, Tim,” Jason tells him.

“Urgh,” Tim groans intelligently.

A minute later, hands leave his ankle and Tim sighs in relief.

“Hey, Tim.” Dick’s voice sounds much closer than it previously did. Tim opens his eyes and finds Dick crouching next to Jason at his side. “Your ankle definitely looks sprained, possibly broken. We’re going to take you back to the manor so Bruce can help us figure out what to do, okay?”

“Okay,” Tim mumbles.

Dick smiles gently at him. “We’re going to carry you upstairs so you can grab some of your things, all right? You can hang out at our house and we can help you call one of your relatives or family friends so you can stay with them until you’re better. It’ll be safer to have someone keeping an eye on you instead of letting you hobble around everywhere by yourself.”

Tim shakes his head. “I don’t have any relatives nearby.”

Dick tilts his head. “What about any family friends that you could call?”

Another shake of his head. Frankly, Tim has no idea who his parents’ friends are other than the people who they occasionally chat with at galas, but he’s pretty sure that they don’t count.

“All right,” Dick says. “Well, you can always stay with us, but I bet Bruce is going to need to discuss it with your parents first.

Stay with the Waynes? Tim frowns. “But-- I live here,” he protests feebly. “We can take care of my ankle and then I can come back here. I’ll be fine by myself, I always am.”

The smile on Dick’s face turns sad. “I know you’re good at taking care of yourself, Tim, but we’ll all feel better if someone can keep an eye on you until you’re better. You need someone to keep an eye on you when you’re injured, my dude.”

Tim considers this argument, factors in the legendary stubbornness of the Bats, and comes to the conclusion that there’s no way that they’ll let him stay at Drake Manor. “All right,” he concedes.

Dick’s smile brightens again. “Great! Can you sit up for us?”

Tim pushes himself upright, though he keeps a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. “I’m not _that_ hurt,” he grumbles, pushing hair out of his face with one hand.

Both boys’ eyes fixate on Tim’s wrists as the sleeve of his hoodie slides back with the motion. He frowns in confusion before remembering the band-aids covering the scrapes on his palms. “I tried to catch myself when I fell,” he explains and then adds, “They weren’t bleeding too badly, but I didn’t want to get the couch dirty.”

Dick’s gaze sharpens and for a terrifying moment, Tim thinks that he’s going to get mad at him. But then his expression smooths out and he nods thoughtfully. “We can check those out at the manor. Tim, I’m going to pick you up so we can take you upstairs and grab some of your things. Sound like a plan?”

Tim nods. It takes a moment, but then Dick wraps him in the innermost blanket and scoops him into his arms like a child. Normally, Tim would protest-- he’s not a kid, after all-- but he supposes that he’ll allow it for now. Besides, Dick walks like his feet don’t touch the ground, which makes for a surprisingly smooth ride.

Jason bounds up the stairs ahead of them. “Where’s your room, Timbo?” he shouts down to them.

“Third door on the right,” Tim calls back.

“Found it!”

Dick carries Tim into his room, where they find Jason gathering Tim’s schoolwork from his desk and shoving it into his school backpack. “All right, point me to where you keep a bag that we could put your things in.”

Together, the three of them locate a bag and Dick holds Tim next to his dresser so he can shove clothes inside. They make a pretty good team. Tim points to what he needs and Dick walks over so Tim can grab it. It only takes a few minutes for Tim to grab his regular clothes plus several days' worth of his Gotham Academy uniform.

Jason walks out of the bathroom with a clear ziploc bag containing Tim’s toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, and face wash. He holds it up in the air so Tim can see its contents. “Is this everything you need from the bathroom?”

“Yeah, that’s good,” Tim confirms. “Did you grab my charger?”

Jason nods. “I put it in your backpack with your laptop and laptop charger. Your headphones are in there too, I think.”

Tim cranes his neck as he surveys his room. “I think that’s everything.”

Jason nods and zips the duffel bag and Tim’s backpack shut, shouldering both of them. “Cool. Let’s go home, then.”

“Hang on. Tim, think you can hang on if one of us gives you a piggyback ride?” Dick asks.

“I think so.”

“Cool. Do you want me or Jason to do it?”

Tim shrugs. “No preference?”

Dick nods and sets Tim down on his bed before turning around and crouching in front of him. Obligingly, Tim shuffles over to Dick and wraps his arms around his neck. Strong hands slide under his knees and Dick stands up easily.

“Okay, we’re good. Time to go!” Dick declares.

Tim can’t remember the last time that somebody gave him a piggyback ride. He would have been young, possibly in elementary school. Has it really been so long?

Dick strides into the hallway and descends the stairs more smoothly than Tim had previously thought was possible. Jason trots along behind them, bags slung over his shoulders. They cross the living room with the blankets strewn across the ground and Jason pauses to grab Tim’s phone and night backpack. Good-- he’d hate to leave his camera behind.

A pang shoots through Tim’s chest as the front door closes behind them with a click. As they walk away, he looks over his shoulder at Drake Manor, stately and silent as always. He doesn’t know why he expected the manor to look any different without him in it.

Jason pulls out his phone as they head towards Wayne Manor. “Hi, B.” A pause. When Jason speaks again, he’s slid into something resembling his Robin voice in tone, if not in pitch. “We found Tim. He’s moderately injured. Looks like he has a few scrapes and his ankle is pretty messed up, so we’re bringin’ him back home with us… No, they weren’t there. He says that he doesn’t have any relatives or family friends that he could stay with either.” Another pause. “Nope, nothing… I know, me neither.”

“Have you eaten lunch yet?” Dick asks casually as they cross over onto the Waynes’ property. “We can have Alfred heat up some leftovers for you. He made some really good lemon chicken and potatoes last night that I think you would like. He also makes really good sandwiches and I think there’s some leftover soup in the fridge.”

“...A sandwich would be nice,” Tim agrees after a moment of thought before quickly adding, “But I don’t want to impose. You don’t have to feed me.”

“Nothing urgent,” Jason says into his phone, casting a sidelong look at Tim. “Yeah. Uh huh, all right.”

Dick cranes his neck to stare incredulously at Tim. “Of course we have to feed you, buddy! You’re, what, twelve? You’re still growing and you need the nutrients and energy.”

“Cool, see you soon. Love you, dad. Bye.” Jason puts his phone back into his pocket and turns to Tim. “Sorry, did I hear you say something about us not needing to feed you? What, are you a robot or somethin’?”

“Jason,” Dick says in warning, though his tone remains light.

Ignoring him, Jason barrels on. “Last I checked, you need food. Of course we’re gonna feed you. It’s not like Bruce can’t afford it or something.”

Tim watches Jason carefully, sinking into the back of Dick’s neck. “I know, I just don’t want to impose. That’s all.”

Jason’s face softens. “You’re never imposing on us, Timbo. Now come on, Bruce is waiting for us.”

His pace quickens as he falls into a light jog. Dick follows suit, though Tim’s ride remains astonishingly smooth. (Then again, Dick probably has lots of experience with carrying injured people without jostling them. Maybe it’s part of Batman’s training.)

As they near the entrance to Wayne Manor, the front doors swing open and Bruce steps out. He’s wearing a faded metal t-shirt and what can only be classified as dad jeans. Batman wears dad jeans. Ha.

He’s smiling, but there’s an air of tension about him. Is he mad? Maybe he’s upset that Dick and Jason decided to bring Tim back to Wayne Manor without asking first. Or maybe he’s mad at Tim for spraining his ankle? Or he could have been doing important Batman business and was interrupted. It could be any number of things. 

“Hey, boys,” Bruce greets them. His eyes flit over them, presumably checking for injuries, before settling on Tim. “Hi, Tim. I heard that you had a rough night.”

Tim shrugs and tightens his grip around Dick’s neck, careful to not choke him. “I guess,” he deflects. 

Bruce’s unnerving gaze stays on him for a moment longer. If Tim didn’t know any better, he would’ve sworn that Bruce has Superman’s x-ray vision. When Bruce smiles, Tim feels himself relax. “Let’s get you inside and we can figure out what to do, okay?”

They file inside the manor. As Jason steps past him, Bruce takes one of the bags from his hands and shoulders it. It just so happens to be the backpack that Tim likes to take with him into Gotham at night. The irony of Batman carrying a backpack that contains the camera that Tim has used to photograph the Bats for the past few years does not escape him.

“I’m going to take Tim over to the kitchen and get him some lunch,” Dick tells Bruce.

“All right.” Bruce nods and looks over at Tim. “Jason and I are going to take your things up to a guest room for you. We’ll be down in a few minutes, okay?” 

“Okay,” Tim replies. There are still traces of tension in Bruce’s face and Tim hopes that Bruce isn’t pulling Jason aside to yell at him.

With that, Bruce and Jason head over to the giant staircase in the foyer as Dick starts down the hallway that Tim vaguely remembers as leading to the kitchen.

“We should make sure to get you a fresh ice pack,” Dick says conversationally as he sets Tim down in one of the kitchen chairs like a child. He props Tim’s foot up on an adjacent chair and takes a moment to adjust the chair so Tim’s knee isn’t bent awkwardly on it. “Have you been icing it?”

“I kept an ice pack wrapped in a towel on it last night,” Tim reports. “It melted overnight, though. I put a fresh one on this morning.”

Dick hums and pulls a strangely shaped ice pack from the freezer. He wraps it in a tea towel before placing it on Tim’s swollen ankle. “Here. This ice pack is specially made to not slide off your ankle. Bruce likes to keep specialty ice packs here for me-- gymnastics injuries, and all that,” he adds at the questioning look on Tim’s face.

It’s technically true if he defines Nightwing’s nightly escapades as gymnastics.

As Tim contemplates the definition of gymnastics, Dick heads back over to the fridge. He opens the refrigerator door, revealing an impressive amount of food. “You said that you want a sandwich? Do you have any preferences? We have just about every lunch meat under the sun.”

“I’m good with anything,” Tim says. “Really, it’s fine.”

“Are you pro- or anti-mayo? And pro- or anti-mustard?”

“Pro-mustard, anti-mayo. Is that even a question?”

Dick starts pulling ingredients out of the fridge. “What? But mayonnaise is good! Alfred’s pesto mayo, it’s delicious.”

Tim snorts. “No thank you.”

“All right, suit yourself. More of Alfred’s pesto mayo for me, then,” he replies easily as he spreads mustard onto the bread.

They slide into an easy silence, broken only by Dick asking, “Do you like pickles?”

“No, thank you.”

Dick opens the fridge and puts away a jar of pickles. Tim leans back in the kitchen chair and watches as Dick resumes assembling the sandwich. How did he get here? He’s icing an injured ankle in Batman’s kitchen as Nightwing makes him a sandwich. The whole situation is patently ridiculous.

“Here you go!” Dick places a plate in front of him, interrupting his thoughts. “It’s turkey and swiss. Mustard, no mayo, no pickles. I took the liberty of adding tomatoes and lettuce. Bone apple teeth.” He bows dramatically. 

“Bean opal feet,” Tim replies drily.

He’s rewarded with a burst of laughter from Dick. Pressing a hand to his stomach as he laughs, Dick pats Tim’s shoulder. “Good one, Timmers.”

Tim smiles to himself as Dick returns to the kitchen counter to clean up his sandwich making supplies. He takes a bite of the sandwich and finds that it’s pretty good.

“How is it?” Dick asks, sliding into a seat across the table with an apple in hand. He slides a glass of water over to Tim.

Mouth full, Tim gives Dick a thumbs up.

“Dick can cook, but don’t ever trust Bruce in the kitchen,” Jason announces as he strides into the kitchen. “He’s scary good at starting fires out of practically nothing. Guess money couldn’t buy him the ability to cook.”

Before he can stop himself, Tim finds himself laughing. Smiling, Jason takes the seat next to the chair currently occupied by Tim’s ankle.

“By the way, Dick, Bruce needed your help with something,” he says casually. “He’s in the study.”

Dick nods and stands up. “All right. I’ll be back soon, Tim.” He affectionately ruffles Tim’s hair-- Tim freezes a little but doesn’t flinch-- and then Jason’s, who rolls his eyes but bears it. Settting his apple down on the table, Dick gives them both a cheery wave before departing.

Jason reaches over to pick up Dick’s partially eaten apple and takes a bite out of it. At Tim’s raised eyebrow, he shrugs. “What? I don’t see his name on it. Finders keepers.”

That’s not what Tim was remarking on, but okay. He drops the topic and goes back to methodically devouring his sandwich-- he hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he started eating. At some point later, Jason finishes his apple and wanders over to the kitchen counter.

“Want any fruit? We have apples, bananas….”

“I’m good, but thank you.”

Jason shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He shoots his apple core into the trash and fist pumps when it goes in. Snatching another apple from a bowl of fruit on the counter, he slides into the chair next to Tim.

After another minute of silence, Bruce walks into the kitchen.

“Hi, Tim. How are you feeling?” He smiles kindly.

“I’m well,” Tim replies automatically before adding, “My ankle isn’t giving me too much trouble. The ice helps.”

Bruce hums noncommittally. “That’s good. Do you mind if I take a look at your ankle? Dick said that he’s already checked for any obvious fractures, so I won’t do that again.”

“Go ahead.” Tim nods and slides his now-empty plate away from him. Stepping over to Tim, Bruce removes the ice pack from his ankle and holds it in surprisingly careful fingers.

“That doesn’t look pleasant,” Bruce says, making a sympathetic face as he examines Tim’s foot.

Tim hadn’t bothered to fully check out his ankle yet and he’s inclined to agree with Bruce. In the light of the kitchen, the purple bruises wrapping around his ankle look like some sort of bizarre ankle cuff. The swelling has morphed his foot and ankle into something resembling one of those long, tubular balloons that clowns use to make balloon animals.

Bruce glances up. “Is it okay if I touch your ankle? I won’t check for fractures like Dick did ealrier, just swelling.”

“That’s fine,” Tim replies.

With a nod, Bruce returns his attention to Tim’s ankle. He doesn’t do much more than run his fingertips over parts and he doesn’t poke at it like Dick did, which was not pleasant despite being potentially necessary. After a moment, Bruce looks back up at Tim.

“Did you take any painkillers?”

“Um, I took two ibuprofen last night.”

“Nothing this morning?”

Tim nods and Bruce turns to Jason, who is already rummaging around in one of the cabinets.

“Here,” Jason says at last, tossing a bottle over to Bruce.

Bruce uncaps the ibuprofen bottle and shakes four pills into his hand. “I’m going to have you take four. I don’t like the look of that swelling. This will reduce it as well as help with the pain.” He takes Tim’s hand and pours the pills into his palm.

Tim swallows them with a sip of water. “Okay,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Bruce leans forward, elbows resting on the table. “I’d really like to get a doctor to take a look at your ankle to check if anything is broken. Do you know who your pediatrician is?”

It’s been years since he last went to the doctor. His nannies used to remind his parents to schedule his yearly check-ups. As his nannies started being phased out, so did Tim’s doctor’s appointments. He faintly remembers a dark-haired woman with a lab coat and stethoscope smiling at him, but that’s it.

Tim resists the urge to shift uncomfortably. “I don’t remember.”

“All right.” Still, Bruce’s measured gaze doesn’t waver. “I can take you to our family’s doctor, Dr. Leslie Thompkins. She can take a look at your ankle.” His eyes drop to the sloppy band-aids covering Tim’s palms and knee. “I’d like to rebandage those before we go see her, but it’ll be easier if you change into shorts first.”

“I can take Tim to his room,” Jason offers before Bruce can ask.

Bruce nods. “Thank you, Jason. I’m going to go call Leslie.”

He stands up and spares a moment to press a kiss to the top of Jason’s head before disappearing into the hallway.

Jason stands up and moves Tim’s ice pack onto the table before turning around and crouching in front of Tim. “Grab on tight-- good, there you go,” he says as Tim latches onto him. It takes a moment for him to hook his hands around Tim’s knees and stand up. Much like Dick, he carries Tim like he weighs nothing.

“The Jason express is leaving the station!” he announces as he carries Tim into the hallway before heading upstairs.

Tim has been to the upper level of Wayne Manor a handful of times while hanging out with Jason and Dick. He recognizes their bedroom doors well enough, but Jason walks right past them. Finally, Jason uses a hip to nudge open a door that’s two doors down from his own room. The guest room is composed of the same sort of cream-and-neutrals color palette that makes up most guest rooms. Someone has carefully placed Tim’s duffel bag on the foot of his bed and his backpacks next to the desk, a sturdy-looking mahogany creature.

Jason carefully lowers himself until he’s practically sitting on the bed. Tim releases his hold on Jason’s neck and scoots back onto the center of the bed.

Hovering next to the bed, Jason’s eyes flicker over him. “I’m going to wait outside. Yell if you need help, okay? And _please_ , for fuck’s sake, stay off that ankle.” His voice is stern, but there’s no real anger underneath. Instead, his words are undercut by a current of worry.

Jason turns and stalks out the door, closing it behind himself with a quiet click.

Alone at last, Tim takes a moment to flop down on the bed and breathe. He’s in Bruce Wayne’s house with a sprained, possibly broken, ankle. Robin and Nightwing have been carrying him everywhere. When did his life get so strange?

His parents still aren’t home, but that’s nothing unusual. At this point, Tim is used to not having other people around. The only thing he needs is Gotham’s unyielding presence with the neon signs of her storefronts and soft lights shining through apartment windows to cut through the night’s darkness.

Tim sits back up and rummages through his duffel bag for a pair of shorts. He finds a pair of basketball shorts-- baggy, but they’ll do. It’s a bit of a trial to change his pants without standing up or putting any pressure on his ankle, but he manages. The shorts expose the bloodied bandaids on his knee and Tim winces at the sight. Yeah, they’ll need to fix that.

Once he’s fully clothed, Tim swings his legs over the side of the bed and lets them hang in midair. “Jason? I’m done changing!” he calls.

The door opens and Jason sticks his head in. He sweeps a critical eye over Tim as if checking that he’s still in once piece before he nods, seemingly satisfied. “I’m gonna carry you to Bruce’s bathroom so we can take care of these,” he gestures at Tim’s various bandaid patch jobs.

“Okay, fair,” Tim agrees, “But why Bruce’s bathroom?”

Jason shrugs. “It’s the biggest and can fit all of us in there because we’re all a bunch of busybody mother hens,” he says, though his words lack any bite. “Also, we can entertain you with our antics.” Once again, he turns around and crouches in front of Tim to allow him to crawl onto his back.

“And away we go!” Jason announces as he stands up and begins the brief trek down the hall to Bruce’s bedroom.

Tim has never been inside Bruce’s bedroom. Frankly, he didn’t know what he was expecting. There are massive wooden bookshelves, sure, and a large bed with somewhat boring gray covers, but Tim didn’t anticipate the number of photos covering the walls. The faces of Bruce’s family peek out from each one. Occasionally, they’re joined by people who Tim assumes must be Bruce’s friends.

Are other members of the Justice League featured in any of the photos? Fascinating.

Unfortunately, Jason whisks him through the bedroom and into the adjacent bathroom. And wow, Jason was right-- this bathroom is _huge_. Inside, Dick sits on the edge of the gigantic tub while Bruce leans against one of the sinks. An impressively large first aid kit sits on the counter next to him. Tim finds it hard to believe that they were waiting in silence this whole time but if they were talking, they’re very good at pretending like they weren’t interrupted.

“You can set him down on the counter,” Bruce instructs Jason.

Jason-- Bruce’s son, Batman’s Robin-- dutifully deposits Tim on the counter, right next to the first aid kit. He pats Tim’s good knee before retreating to where Dick sits atop the tub. With a sigh, he plops down at his brother’s feet and leans against the side of the tub. Wordlessly, Dick runs one hand through Jason’s hair while he pulls out his phone with the other.

“Here’s what I’m going to do,” Bruce says as he turns on the sink’s faucet and starts washing his hands. “First, I’m going to use a damp rag to soak those bandaids enough that they won’t hurt as much to pull off. Most of them look like they’re about ready to fall off anyways, so I don’t anticipate that being a problem. Sound good?”

Tim nods.

“Okay, good. After that, I’m going to wipe them down with some disinfectant. It’s going to sting a little bit. Do you think you’ll be okay with that?” He watches Tim’s face, gauging his reaction.

Tim shrugs and resists the urge to swing his feet. “I’m not a child, I can handle it.”

Bruce makes a noncommittal noise. “After that, I’ll put some antibiotic ointment on them and then wrap everything up properly with some bandages. Then, I’m going to drive you to Leslie’s clinic. Okay?”

“Okay,” he replies, clasping his hands in his lap.

Grabbing a pair of rubber gloves from the first aid kit, Bruce pulls them on and slowly approaches Tim. “Let me know if you need a break, all right?”

Tim nods, if only to make Bruce feel better. Why does Bruce think that he’ll react like a child? He can handle a little bit of pain. After all, he’s not a baby.

A rag appears from… somewhere and Bruce wets it under the sink before pressing it to the bandaids on Tim’s knee. Getting the bandaids wet enough to peel off takes some time, but eventually they’re damp enough that Bruce can peel them off without much of a fuss. He tosses them into a small trash can next to the sink.

Soon, the ugly, partially formed scabs on Tim’s palms and knee are visible. They’re nasty in the way that wounds tend to be but from Tim’s rudimentary medical knowledge, at least they don’t seem infected. They aren’t actively bleeding either, which is a blessing, but the scrapes are rather large and new enough that they could potentially tear.

“All right, the first part is done. I’m going to start disinfecting your scrapes.” Bruce tears open an alcohol wipe and stares Tim down until he finally meets his eyes. “You will let me know if you need a break, right?” It’s phrased like a question, but Tim knows that voice. He’s heard it numerous times before, but always while Bruce was wearing the cowl. It’s odd to hear Batman’s voice in Bruce Wayne’s bathroom, even if it lacks the deep gravel that normally accompanies it.

Before he can stop himself, Tim finds himself nodding. The tension doesn’t completely leave Bruce’s shoulders, but he does relax minutely. He lightly pats Tim’s good knee before he begins the process of methodically disinfecting Tim’s various scrapes.

Bruce wasn’t lying when he said that it would hurt a little. Luckily, his wounds have scabbed over enough that it doesn’t hurt _too_ badly. It’s like getting hand sanitizer in a cut, except the cuts are uncomfortably large scrapes.

It’s fine. Tim is fine.

He bites his lip to keep himself from saying anything and focuses on keeping his breathing even. If his hands weren’t injured, he could’ve grabbed something and squeezed it to stave off the pain. Still, Tim will have to make do.

“You’re doing great, chum,” Bruce tells him as he finishes cleaning one palm and moves to the other.

Tim nods and lets his eyes briefly flutter shut. He needs a distraction. Opening his eyes again, Tim glances over at where Jason and Dick are huddled together by the tub. They’re both hunched over Jason’s phone as they quietly discuss something.

“Hey, Timbo, have you seen the video going around of a bunch of dogs in their own train cars?” Jason calls over. Robin training must teach them to have eyes in the back of their heads.

“Um, no?”

“Well, you need to see this. They’re in a buncha train cars made for children. It’s freakin’ _adorable_.” He stands up and walks over to Tim, holding up his phone. “See?”

On his phone, a video shows a bunch of dogs riding past, each in their own individual train car. All of the dogs look extremely happy to be going for a ride, but they’re still sitting politely in each car.

“Aren’t they cute?” Jason demands.

Bruce raises an eyebrow and glances at the video, but his face quickly softens. “That’s very cute.”

“How hard do you think it would be to find a train like that for Ace?” Dick muses.

Smiling, Bruce moves on from Tim’s palm to his knee. “I’d think that the biggest hurdle would be convincing Alfred to let you run a miniature train through the grounds.”

Jason snorts as Dick throws his head back and laughs. Even Tim smiles, albeit faintly.

“Remember that time that Dick accidentally tore up some of Alfred’s petunias when he backflipped into them?” Jason recalls. His expression could almost be described as wistful if not for the mischievous grin on his face.

“How could I forget?” Bruce says drily.

“ _Guys_ ,” Dick whines, letting himself slide backwards into the empty bathtub until the only visible part of him is his feet sticking out from the porcelain tub. “Alfred made me replant everything _and_ plant a whole new set of peony bushes for him. I was covered in so much dirt that he had to hose me off before he let me come back inside. It was awful,” he sniffles.

“Boo hoo, trust fund baby,” Jason retorts.

Without looking up, Bruce remarks, “You know, you probably wouldn’t have gotten so dirty if you hadn’t decided to do the worm in the dirt.”

Jason opens his mouth to say something, but Bruce quickly adds, “Please don’t subject me to hearing my children make jokes about Dick being _dirty_.”

“Do you know how many tabloid covers I’ve seen speculating about your love life?” Scoffing, Jason throws his arms in the air. “Too damn many, that’s what.”

“Language,” Bruce chides gently as the corners of his mouth twitch.

“What, it’s true!”

Dodging the subject, Bruce instead replies, “Tabloids are baseless rubbish.” He pulls out some gauze and clean white bandages. “Tim, I’m going to start wrapping everything up, okay?”

“Okay,” Tim mumbles.

“Rubbish? You sound like Alfred,” Dick points out as he does something with his feet that looks suspiciously like synchronized swimming.

“Master Bruce, however did you manage to set _tomatoes_ on _fire?”_ Jason declares in a reasonable, if exaggerated, imitation of Alfred’s accent.

From the tub, Dick laughs. “No, no, he sounds more like this.” He clears his throat and crows, “No, Master Bruce, you may not do your own laundry. Do you recall the red shirt incident of 2007? I forbid you from touching the washing machine.”

Jason cackles. “Good heavens, Master Bruce, you are a big man baby.”

Tim feels himself slowly tensing up, shoulders hunching. Bruce finishes wrapping bandages around his palm and smiles at him before turning to raise a pointed eyebrow at Dick and Jason.

“Boys,” he says mildly, but there’s an undercurrent of authority.

“Yeah, yeah.” Jason sighs and steps into the tub next to Dick. He lays down and mirrors Dick, sticking his feet in the air. Together, they start moving their legs in an approximation of synchronized swimming.

Dick’s form is much better than Jason’s; he’s better at pointing his toes and his movements are crisper. It’s from his acrobat training, Tim supposes.

Some of the tension leaves Tim’s shoulders, but he doesn’t bother to fix his posture. It feels better, safer, when he’s curled a little bit into himself. Bruce hums and wordlessly continues bandaging Tim’s other hand. The next few minutes pass in silence as Bruce ties off the bandage on Tim’s hand and begins working on his knee. He moves quickly, efficiently, like he’s done this before. Then again, Bruce probably has lots of experience with patching up his own wounds.

At last, Bruce finishes wrapping Tim’s knee and gives his calf a light pat. “There, you’re all done.” He announces, taking a step away from Tim.

Jason sits up, his head poking out from above the side of the tub. “Is it time to go see Leslie?”

Bruce nods and turns to Tim. “I’m going to carry you down to the car, okay?”

He stares at Tim and it takes a long minute for Tim to realize that he’s waiting for Tim to respond. “Sure, okay,” he says. That was… weird.

Only then does Bruce step forward and slide one arm under his knees while the other wraps under his arms. Bruce effortlessly picks Tim up and strides out of the bathroom.

“Do you want Dick and Jason to come along?” he asks conversationally as he carries Tim into the hallway. “Or they can stay behind and I can take you myself, if you’d prefer.”

Tim considers the question and Bruce pauses, watching him as he waits for his answer.

“They can come along,” he says at last. “I don’t mind.”

“But do you want them there?” Bruce asks patiently.

Tim nods a little and Bruce smiles at him.

“All right,” he says before turning to call over his shoulder, “Dick, Jason! Can you get the car started?”

Dick and Jason come tumbling out of Bruce’s room.

“Aye aye, captain!” Jason shouts as he bounds past Bruce, Dick hot on his heels.

Smiling faintly, Bruce follows them down the hallway, although at a much more sedate pace. Soon, they reach the car. The car in question is a black BMW and, for a billionaire, is reasonably inconspicuous. Jason and Dick are already waiting for them; Jason has his arms crossed as he leans against the car and Dick bounces on the balls of his feet.

Without waiting for Bruce to ask, Dick opens the door to the back seat for them. “All aboard the Wayne Express!” he announces.

“Choo, choo!” Jason shouts.

Rolling his eyes, Bruce leans into the car and carefully deposits Tim in the middle of the back seat. He steps back out and glances at Jason. “I’m assuming that you’ll want to sit in the back seat with Tim?” Jason nods enthusiastically and Bruce looks to Tim. “Tim, are you all right with that? You can say no.”

Tim shrugs. “He can join me, it’s fine. It’ll be fun.”

Bruce nods in acknowledgment and turns back to Jason. “Be careful of his ankle and no roughhousing. Understand?”

“I know, B,” Jason replies as he bounds over to the other side of the car and plops down in the seat to Tim’s left.

Dick gives him a mock salute and slides into the passenger seat.

“Keys?”

Pulling the keys from his pocket, Dick tosses them to Bruce, who catches them one-handed.

Bruce slides into the driver’s seat and glances at them in the rearview mirror. “Seatbelts on, everyone. This isn’t a school bus.” He waits for Tim to finagle the seatbelt’s buckle into place before he nods, satisfied. Dick pulls a blanket out from under the seats and hands it to Tim. “All right, let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!! I'm in the process of replying to everyone's comments from the last few chapters. Even if I don't reply to you right away, please know that there's a 100% chance that I did some little excited hops when I read your comment. Thank you all for sending your love!! I love and appreciate y'all. <3 <3 <3 
> 
> As usual, I'd also like to thank my beta reader, [S](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolateandsilver), for being the literal best editor ever!
> 
> Check out my tumblrs for more content:  
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	6. an old friend who dreamt once of storms on the ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim goes to the doctor. Bruce and Leslie make a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Black Eyes by David Wirsig. 
> 
> Last updated on 07/20/2020.
> 
>  **CWs:** implied emotional/verbal abuse (it’s basically what you’d expect), discussion of suspected abuse, Tim generally doesn’t have a great brain day

When Bruce said that he was taking Tim to his family doctor’s clinic, Tim didn’t expect it to be in Crime Alley.

Before they go inside, Bruce dons a pair of aviators and a baseball hat that he dug out of the glove compartment.

“You look very cool, B,” Jason tells him seriously.

“Hm,” Bruce says.

He ends up carrying Tim inside and sets him down in the corner of the waiting room. Tim ends up sitting on an uncomfortable plastic chair with Jason on one side and an empty seat on the other. Bruce takes a seat in the chair across from Jason’s, apparently lost in thought. Dick wanders off on his own to the front desk to go check Tim in.

They sit in somewhat stilted silence until Jason pulls out his phone and starts showing Tim old pictures of Ace. He’s already seen a handful of the pictures before, but hey, it’s something to do. Besides, Ace is an awfully cute dog. Once Dick rejoins them, he sits next to Bruce and leans across the aisle to show Tim his own Ace pictures.

At some point, a bespectacled woman with gray hair and a white lab coat enters the waiting room and heads straight towards their corner.

“It’s good to see you in one piece, Bruce,” she says by way of greeting.

“It’s good to see you too, Leslie,” Bruce replies warmly.

“Hmm.” Her eyes rove over them until they settle on Tim and his bandages. Tim tries to stay very still as he blinks up at her. At last, she steps away and states, “Exam room three is empty. Follow me.”

“Do you want me to carry you?” Bruce asks calmly.

Tim nods and Dr. Thompkins waits for Bruce to scoop Tim up before she sweeps out of the waiting room. Even while carrying Tim, Bruce easily matches her brisk pace. He follows her out of the waiting room and down a short hallway, where they duck into a room labeled _#3._

Inside, there’s a metal exam table with paper pulled over it, presumably for sanitary reasons. Two plastic chairs sit next to it. In the corner, there’s a trash can next to a counter with jars of cotton balls and tongue depressors. The wallpaper is patterned with rainbow-colored fish and peeling in one corner.

Bruce sets Tim down on the metal table and tugs the blanket from the car tighter around Tim’s shoulders. Only when Tim is securely wrapped in the blanket does Bruce sit down in the plastic chair closest to the exam table.

“You must be Tim Drake. Bruce told me about you over the phone.” Dr. Thompkins extends a hand for Tim to shake, which he does. “I’m Leslie Thompkins. I’ve known Bruce since he was a child, so I suppose I could be called an old family friend. I’ve been dealing with his nonsense for years.”

Bruce smiles and Dr. Thompkins raises an eyebrow at him. Wisely, he doesn’t say anything.

“I was told that you injured your ankle,” she says as she takes a clipboard out of a drawer. “I’m going to take a look at that, but first I’ll need to gather some baseline health information.”

“Okay.” Tim picks at the edge of the bandage on his hands instead of looking up at her.

“I’m going to listen to your heart and lungs first to make sure that everything is functioning properly, okay?” Dr. Thompkins walks over to Tim and pulls out a stethoscope. “It has to go under your shirt and it’s going to be a little cold,” she warns.

Tim nods and stays very still as Dr. Thompkins proceeds to listen to his heart and lungs. She performs a number of other tests that Tim can only assume are routine and writes down the results on her clipboard. Most of the tests are relatively okay. He isn’t the biggest fan of how she has to get into his personal space for them, but he can handle it.

When she pulls out a blood pressure cuff and explains what it’s for, Tim frowns a little.

“So it’s going to… squeeze my arm?”

“Yes, and it’s going to feel tight. A lot of kids don’t like it when they first try it, but it won’t be for that long,” she promises.

Tim’s eyes flicker between Dr. Thompkins and the cuff. “I’ll be fine,” he decides. “I’m not a kid.”

Dr. Thompkins glances at Bruce and they share A Look. It’s not the first look that she’s shared with him during their visit, but Tim doesn’t like the feeling of this one. “Here we go, okay?” she says gently as she slides the cuff onto his arm.

With a few pumps, she inflates the blood pressure cuff. Tim drums the fingers of his free hand against his thigh, trying to not focus on how the cuff grows tighter and tighter.

It feels like a hand gripping his arm. His skin is haunted by the ghosts of his mother’s nails digging into his skin. Any moment, his parents could burst through that door and scold him. In all likelihood, he’s surely done something wrong to warrant a lecture.

Focus. Tim concentrates on steadying his breathing. He hates crying, let alone in front of an adult. They’ll think that he’s a baby or worse. His chest feels like someone is squeezing it.

The cuff begins to loosen and Tim nearly sighs in relief. Bit by bit, it relaxes, but spiders still skitter under his skin.

“That’s a bit high for your age,” Dr. Thompkins murmurs as she looks at the gauge on the cuff.

“What is it?” Bruce asks absently, eyes fixed on Tim.

“One hundred and twenty-two over eighty,” she replies.

Bruce frowns slightly, brow furrowing. “Hm, you’re right.”

“Sorry,” Tim says automatically.

Immediately, Bruce’s face softens. “Tim,” Bruce says gently as he stands up.

Tim tenses and watches him warily. What did he do? But Bruce merely steps closer to the table and reaches out to settle a reassuring hand on Tim’s shoulders, but Tim flinches away. Bruce retracts his hand immediately and takes a step away. “Sorry, bud.”

“‘s fine,” Tim stares at his knees instead of up at Bruce.

Bruce tilts his head slightly, brow furrowed. “Are you feeling stressed right now? That would explain why your blood pressure is on the high end.”

“I’m fine,” he mumbles again, but his voice cracks because puberty is cruel. Tim wills away the tears gathering in his eyes. He’s good at not looking like he’s crying.

“It’s all right. You don’t have to be okay, sport,” Bruce says softly as he sits back down in the small plastic chair and offers him a small smile.

Dr. Thompkins looks through something in her clipboard. “All right. Now that we’ve gotten through all of the general check-up items, let’s talk about your ankle. First things first: what happened?”

“Fell down the stairs,” Tim explains. “My ankle buckled and I fell on my face. That’s how I got the scrapes, too.”

Her gaze flits to the bandages on his hands and knee. “Bruce already took care of those for you?”

“Yeah, he rewrapped them and everything.”

“Hmmm.” Dr. Thompkins writes something down on her clipboard. “All right. When did the injury occur?”

Tim shrugs. “Last night. I thought it wasn’t a big deal, so I went to sleep.”

She looks up, watching his face. “Can I ask why Bruce was the person who brought you here?”

“My parents weren’t home,” Tim replies smoothly.

“Where are they?” she asks patiently.

“Chile. It’s a business trip for Drake Industries.”

Dr. Thompkins nods. “Oh, Chile sounds fun. I’ve never been. Do you know when they’re getting back?”

They’re approaching dangerous waters. Tim takes his nervousness and shoves it down, down, down. He swallows his fear and lets it sit in his stomach like a rock. “Later this month.”

“Do you have an exact date?”

“They haven’t scheduled their flight yet,” Tim says in lieu of actually answering her question. He’s well aware of Bruce’s eyes on him as he silently watches the exchange.

“And who’s watching you while they’re gone?” Dr. Thompkin’s voice remains frustratingly calm.

Tim raises an eyebrow. “Our maid, Mrs. Mac.”

“Where was she today?”

“Today’s her day off,” he replies, omitting the fact that she also has Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday off as well.

“Hmmm. When does she usually work?”

Tim tilts his head, regarding her. He thinks of his mother, her eyes as cool and unyielding as steel, toppling businessmen with poisoned words and a smile as sharp as a knife.

He takes the pain in his heart, sharp like shards of glass, and lets it slip into his words. Let him be cold, let him be unyielding. Let his raw, bleeding heart freeze over until it’s as cool as ice.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, Dr. Thompkins, but you seem to be implying that my parents were unable to raise me to be a functional human being. I can assure you that is not the case.” He smiles, leans forward. “Whatever you’re looking for, you won’t find it.”

Dr. Thompkins raises an eyebrow and stares him down. Tim meets her gaze evenly, but she doesn’t flinch.

“Tim,” Bruce says, interrupting the standoff, “How’s your ankle feeling?”

He glances over at Bruce, wary. “Better.”

“Did the ibuprofen help?”

“A little. It took the edge off.”

Bruce nods, satisfied, and looks back at Dr. Thompkins. While they were talking, she had quietly approached the examination table. Tim watches suspiciously as she steps closer.

“I’m going to take a look at your ankle, Tim. Let me know if anything hurts, all right?”

Dr. Thompkins examines his ankle in much the same manner as Dick did earlier that day. She proclaims that his foot isn’t about to immediately fall off and lets Bruce carry him down the hallway into a room with a massive x-ray machine.

“Try to stay still, okay?” she instructs, carefully adjusting the lead smock that she’d slipped over his shoulders. “The machine is going to move closer so it can take an x-ray of your foot and it’ll make some weird sounds. I’ll let you know when you can move again, all right?”

Bruce smiles at Tim. “X-rays sound scary, but they’re just using a certain wavelength of light to image your foot.”

“Okay,” Tim mumbles and takes a deep breath.

Afterwards, Dr. Thompkins peers at his x-rays and names each bone in his foot when he asks. Bruce hovers over her shoulder, painting an amusing portrait considering how she’s at least half a foot shorter than him. Tim doesn’t know enough about the human anatomy to tell whether anything is broken or fractured, but neither Bruce nor Dr. Thompkins is frowning. That’s probably a good sign, right?

“Tim,” Dr. Thompkins says, startling him out of his thoughts. “Congratulations, it looks like you didn’t break anything. You’re the proud owner of a sprained ankle.”

“Oh boy,” he says drily. Bruce cracks a smile.

“Given how many sprains Bruce has had, he knows a lot about caring for them. Still, I want you to know how to take care of yourself, okay?” Dr. Thompkins watches him carefully, waiting for his nod of acknowledgment. When he nods, she proceeds to rattle off a list of instructions.

For now, make sure to rest, ice, compress, and elevate his ankle above his heart. He should stay off his ankle if it hurts, but he’s allowed to walk a little bit on it if he can stand on it without pain. She shows him a range of exercises to restore flexibility in his ankle and cautions him to _not overdo it._

She looks pointedly at Bruce when she says the last part. Bruce has the decency to look at least a little bit guilty.

“I don’t overdo it _that_ much,” he protests calmly.

Dr. Thompkins doesn’t dignify that with a response. “Do you have any crutches that are Tim’s size?”

“We have some leftover from when Jason broke his leg when he was younger. Those should work for Tim, I think.”

She nods and turns back to Tim. “In that case, I think we’re done here.” When she smiles at him, there are lines around her eyes.

“Thank you,” Tim says as his feet dangle off of the examination table.

He allows Bruce to pick him up and carry him back out into the waiting room where Jason and Dick are waiting for them. They both look up from Dick’s phone as Bruce approaches.

Jason is the first to speak. “How’d it go?”

“It’s just a sprain,” Bruce reports.

Dick smiles and shifts into his previous seat across the small aisle so Bruce can deposit Tim next to Jason. “That’s good news! Casts are a pain.”

“Bruce, can I have a word with you?” Dr. Thompkins asks coolly from behind Bruce.

Tim watches as Bruce nods and tosses the car keys to Dick before following Dr. Thompkins out of the waiting room.

“Want to chill here until he’s done?” Dick asks.

Tim is quiet for a long moment until he finally shrugs. “Okay,” he says. The shards of glass from earlier still sit in his stomach, but he wraps himself around the hurt, buries it until it goes numb. It’s easier that way.

* * *

Leslie’s shoulders are tense as she leads Bruce into her office, shutting the door behind them. He doesn’t usually drop by during the day-- it feels different in the daylight. Fewer shadows, more peeling paint. How Leslie is able to hold her clinic and every person that passes through it together with her bare hands, he’ll never understand.

“Sit,” Leslie orders, gesturing at the worn leather chair sitting across from her desk.

Contrary to popular opinion, Bruce does actually have a sense of self-preservation. He sits.

Frowning, Leslie sweeps some of the paperwork cluttering her desk into a pile. She looks tired and frustrated, feelings that Bruce is all too familiar with.

At last, she takes a seat in the chair behind her desk and stares him down. “I really hope that you’re not about to tell me that I shouldn’t report that boy’s parents to Child Protection and Permanency.”

“No, I-- of course not. I agree with you. We saw the same things, did we not?”

Leslie leans forward, hands flat on her desk. “You mean a boy who clearly hasn’t had a decent checkup in years and who tensed every time I had to touch him? A boy who clearly has next to no parental supervision and who acts like a miniature adult? A boy who was left alone overnight when he was injured?”

“We’ve been with him almost all day, but he hasn’t mentioned calling anyone for help or letting anyone else know what’s going on,” Bruce says quietly. “I don’t like it.”

Leslie sighs and leans back into her chair as some of the fight drains out of her. “He wasn’t telling the truth about his ankle. What’s your theory?”

“The floor in his house wouldn’t have been enough to tear up his skin enough. The stairs outside his house could’ve done it, but Dick and Jason didn’t see any traces of blood. I think he fell onto something rough, possible concrete.” Bruce pauses and weighs his next words. “He would’ve had to be moving quickly to fall hard enough to skin himself like that.”

“You think he was running from something.”

He shrugs and pushes the mental image of Tim fleeing from some unknown terror out of his head. “It’s a possibility.”

“Okay.” Leslie closes her eyes briefly. “He mentioned his parents’ flights. Did you check them?”

“They’re scheduled to fly out of Brazil and arrive in Gotham during the afternoon of October 25th.”

“And Tim doesn’t know,” Leslie says softly, pinching the bridge of her nose as if to ward off an impending headache.

Bruce leans back in his seat and stares at his hands. Moments of quiet are few and far between in the clinic, but he’ll give her what he can.

At last, Leslie opens her eyes again. “I’m going to start writing up the CPP report. I’m thinking definite neglect, but there may be components that we’re missing.”

He frowns and thinks back to what Jason told him earlier that day. “Tim doesn’t like anyone helping him with his homework. He acts like-- like he has to prove himself. When we ask him to choose something like food or an activity, he always says that he doesn’t mind and that he doesn’t want to impose. It’s like he’s not used to having an opinion. He’s nervous around me too, more so than around Jason or Dick.”

“You think that there may be emotional abuse involved too?” Leslie watches him carefully.

“We can’t ignore it as a possibility.”

She nods and absently looks over the paperwork stacked on her desk. After a long moment, she decides, “I’m going to hold off on submitting the report to CPP until you have more evidence.”

“He says that he doesn’t have any relatives or family friends who he can stay with. I’ll contact his parents and see if they agree to him staying with us until they return.”

“Keep an eye on that boy, Bruce.” Leslie’s words are sharp, but her face is tired.

“I will.” Bruce stands up and walks behind her desk so he can rest a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Leslie. I really do appreciate it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She sighs and nods, waving him off. “You should go check on your boys.”

He walks over to the door and then pauses, his hand on the handle. Leslie raises an eyebrow at him.

“Go on, Bruce. Try to not get stabbed or shot over the next few days,” she says, a hint of a tired smile on her lips.

“I make no promises,” he replies smoothly and ducks out the door before she can lecture him.

* * *

Like before, Bruce carries Tim to the car. He doesn’t touch Tim more than necessary, but Tim’s skin still itches at the contact. He’s been carried and poked at and prodded all day, and he just wants to be _done._ Spending twenty minutes wedged between Jason and Dick on the ride back to Wayne Manor does not sound like his idea of fun right now.

However, instead of stowing Tim in the back seat like before, Bruce glances down at him. “Front seat or back seat? The front might let you stretch your leg out more.”

“Front,” Tim replies almost immediately.

Bruce nods and lets Dick open the car door for him so he can carefully place Tim in the passenger seat. He presses a button on the side of the seat and it smoothly slides back, letting Tim stretch out his legs.

“There you go,” Bruce says, satisfied, and walks to the other side of the car so he can climb into the driver’s seat.

Dick and Jason sprawl out in the back seat. Jason digs out his phone and taps something on it-- he’s playing a game, maybe, or texting someone-- while Dick merely bounces his legs and stares out the window.

“Can I choose the music?” Dick asks as Bruce backs out of the parking lot.

“Nope. It’s my turn to choose,” he replies smoothly.

Jason sighs and slouches dramatically into his seat. His hoodie looks like it’s swallowing him. “But you always play dad music,” he complains.

“I am a dad,” Bruce says, smiling as he hits a button on the dashboard. What sounds like 80’s rock immediately fills the air.

Pouting, Jason leans into the car door and sticks his tongue out at Bruce in the rearview mirror. However, it only takes a minute for him to get reabsorbed into whatever he was doing on his phone.

As soon as they park in front of the front doors of the manor, Alfred steps outside with a pair of crutches in clasped one hand. He walks over to the car and opens the passenger door. “Good afternoon, Master Tim. Perhaps these will make your life a little easier.” He leans the crutches against the side of the car.

“Thanks, Alfred,” Tim replies, using the door as leverage as he pulls himself up to stand on one foot. Alfred hands him the crutches-- they have foam already attached to the tops, Tim would _kill_ for Alfred-- and hovers over Tim until he’s satisfied that Tim won’t fall flat on his face.

“Have you used crutches before?” Dick asks as he climbs out of the car, watching him curiously.

“I haven’t, but they seem pretty intuitive.”

That elicits a smile from Dick. “They are, but I can give you a few pointers. Make sure to keep your steps short so you don’t wear away at the rubber at the bottom--”

He proceeds to coach Tim up one of the ramps on either side of the steps leading up to the front door and over to the elevator. (Thank fuck that Bruce’s house is designed to be accessible. Tim would really rather not have to hop up stairs while on crutches.) Jason follows them, occasionally offering encouragement.

“You’re doing great, Timmy,” Jason says as they arrive in front of the elevator. Dick pushes the up button for him even though it’s Tim’s ankle that’s sprained, not his hands.

Tim smiles, but it’s a little forced. They mean well, he knows that, but Tim would really like to be alone in a room for a while. He’s been around more noise today than he has for the past week and he kind of wants to scream.

“I’m going to take a nap,” he tells them, letting his smile turn apologetic. “I’ll see you later?”

“Cool. I might go lay down too, maybe work on some homework,” Jason replies.

“I’m going to go play video games and not do homework because I’m not in school,” Dick announces cheerfully, skipping-- literally skipping-- down the hall to the den.

Jason cups his hands around his mouth and shouts after him, “Just because you’re not in school doesn’t mean you’re not a big ol’ nerd!”

Dick’s laughter echoes through the hall as he disappears into the den.

The elevator doors open and Jason lets Tim hop in first. They stand in relative silence as the elevator pulls up to the top floor of the manor. Again, Jason lets Tim exit first.

“I’ll see you later, Timbo,” Jason says, watching as Tim awkwardly crutches over to his room. “Text one of us if you need anything, yeah?”

Tim nods and opens his door. “Of course,” he says, and it’s technically _not_ an agreement. It’s just for a few hours. He’ll be fine.

He ducks into his room and lets out a sigh of relief as the door closes behind him. _Finally_. Hobbling over to the bed, Tim carefully rests his crutches against the headboard before he flops back onto the bed. As much as he’d like to take a nap like he told Jason and Dick, he does actually have things to do.

Unfortunately, his plans are interrupted by a knock on the door. Dick opens it a moment later.

“I have an ice pack for you,” he announces, holding it up in one hand.

“Oh,” Tim says. “Thanks.”

Dick jogs across the room and hands it to Tim. “Make sure to keep that ankle elevated, yeah?” He waits for Tim’s nod of acknowledgment before slipping out of the room as suddenly as he’d entered. Tim places the ice pack on his ankle and lets out a sigh of relief at the pleasant coolness.

With Dick gone, Tim can finally get down to business. First things first: he needs to call his parents.

He tries calling his dad first. As expected, it rings several times before his dad’s familiar voice is in his ear. “This is Jack Drake. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

There’s a mechanical beep and then Tim begins to speak. “Hi, dad. I’m calling to let you know that I sprained my ankle. Bruce Wayne and his kids took me to the doctor and he thinks that I should stay with someone who can keep an eye on me until I’m fully healed. Since we don’t have any family nearby, he offered to let me stay at Wayne Manor until you guys get back from your trip. I think he’s going to call you about it soon? Um, have fun and have a safe flight.”

He calls his mom, but she doesn’t pick up the phone either. Tim ends up leaving a voicemail that’s nearly identical to the one that he left his dad before he fetches his laptop. Historically, his parents have been more likely to get back to him if he contacts them through as many avenues as possible. He quickly types up an email to both of them and hits send.

* * *

To: Janet Lynn Drake <jldrake@drake.com>, Jack Drake <jdrake@drake.com>

From: Timothy Jackson Drake <tjdrake@drake.com>

_October 7th, 3:13 PM (just now)_

Subject: Sprained ankle

Hi Mom and Dad,

I hurt my ankle last night by falling down the stairs. Bruce Wayne’s kids found me and took me to the doctor to get some x-rays taken. It turns out that my ankle is only sprained, not broken. Bruce Wayne says that I should stay with someone until it’s healed. Since there isn’t really anyone nearby who I could stay with, he offered to let me stay at Wayne Manor until you guys get back from Brazil. If I’m not home when you get back, please don’t panic-- I’m probably with the Waynes. I think Mr. Wayne is going to call you soon to make sure that you’re okay with me staying at his house.

I doubt that my ankle will interfere with my academics. I expect for the rest of the semester to proceed smoothly.

Sincerely,

Tim

* * *

Tim sets his laptop on the nightstand before laying down on the bed. It’s rather comfortable and he wasn’t entirely lying when he told Dick and Jason that he wanted to take a nap. He just needs to rest his eyes for a moment, is all.

* * *

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Tim rolls over and presses his face into the pillows.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

The thumping increases in urgency, but Tim’s bed is so comfortable. It takes a few seconds for his brain to come online and realize that the strange thumping is someone knocking on his door. By the time that he processes that information, the door is already swinging open.

Oh no.

Did he forget to submit an assignment in school? Or maybe they’re mad at him for napping instead of doing homework. Worse, they could’ve found one of the SD cards from his camera and discovered all of his photos of Batman--

Out of sheer instinct, Tim rolls away from the door, taking most of his covers with him. Then everything goes topsy-turvy as the bed falls out from underneath him. Gracelessly, Tim rolls off the bed and drops onto the floor.

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry!” Jason exclaims as he dashes into Tim’s room, skidding to a halt next to him. “Are you okay? I really didn’t mean to startle you, I swear.”

“What,” Tim says flatly, blinking up at the ceiling.

Jason hovers at Tim’s blanket-wrapped feet but only watches him carefully without coming any closer. “I was knocking on the door to get you for dinner, but I must’ve woken you up. Are you all right? Did you hit anything or twist your ankle or something?”

Tim sits up as he finishes waking up. “Right,” he says. “Yeah, I-- I’m fine, I think. My ankle feels all right.” It’s actually a little bit sore, but he suspects that’s from the painkillers wearing off. He begins extricating himself from the cocoon of blankets. After a moment, Jason helps by carefully untangling his feet.

He accepts the hand that Jason offers him and lets the older boy easily pull him to his feet.

“I’ll get your crutches,” Jason says and darts around his bed to fetch them before Tim can move.

“I-- oh. Okay. Thank you,” he says as Jason hands over his crutches. It takes Tim a moment to get them situated under his arms before he walks over to the bathroom using his crutches. “Let me go wash my hands,” he calls over his shoulder.

Once his hands are satisfactorily clean, Jason trails Tim over to the elevator. “Alfred made spaghetti carbonara,” he says. “You haven’t been over here for his carbonara before, right?”

They step into the elevator together. “I don’t think so, no.”

Jason jabs the button for the first floor. “It’s so fuckin’ good, man. He taught me how to make it but I can never get it quite like his, you know?”

The elevator doors open and they exit, making their way towards the kitchen.

“I think I had carbonara at a restaurant, once, when I was younger,” Tim muses. “Don’t remember much about it, though.”

“Oh, it’s really good! Basically, carbonara sauce is made with egg, some fancy ham called pancetta, but we use turkey bacon instead because Bruce doesn’t eat pork, and--”

As they head towards the kitchen, Jason proceeds to enthusiastically explain the process of making carbonara. He uses a lot of terminology that Tim has to ask him about-- most of Tim’s cooking experience comes from the internet and his culinary vocabulary is rather limited.

“Hi, boys,” Bruce greets them as soon as they walk into the kitchen, already seated in his usual spot.

Jason pulls out a chair next to the wall for Tim that he happily collapses into. The proximity to the wall lets him lean his crutches against the wall so they’re not a tripping hazard. As soon as Tim is seated, Bruce pulls out the chair between him and Tim and hands him another specially shaped ice pack.

“How’s your ankle?” He asks. “You should keep icing it and keep it elevated.”

“I’ve kept the ice pack on it for the past few hours,” Tim replies. This seems to please Bruce, but he doesn’t let the subject drop.

“Is it bothering you at all?” Bruce presses. “It’s been six hours since your last dose of ibuprofen.”

“Nothing that I can’t handle,” Tim demurs.

Bruce frowns slightly and digs out-- what else?-- a travel-sized bottle of ibuprofen from his pocket. He counts out four pills from it and deposits them in Tim’s hand. “Take these. I’d really like for that swelling to go down.”

Without complaint, Tim swallows all four pills with a sip of water. At last, Bruce seems satisfied and the bottle of ibuprofen disappears back into his pocket.

The rest of dinner goes reasonably smoothly. Jason and Dick discuss some video game that Tim has never heard of. Bruce and Alfred seem content to eat their meal in peace and let the boys ramble on. Privately, Tim is inclined to agree with them. Talking while eating feels strange. He’d much rather focus on eating Alfred’s positively delicious carbonara.

After everyone finishes eating, Jason goes around and collects their plates.

“I can do it myself,” Tim defends. “I want to help.”

His protests only earn him a raised eyebrow from Jason. “You’re on crutches, Timbo. Let us help you out, yeah?”

“Besides, you’re our guest,” Dick pipes up as he grabs a stack of tupperware containers from a drawer next to the fridge. Tim sighs but remains seated. He supposes that they do have a point.

Together, Dick and Alfred begin loading the leftovers into tupperware. Bruce stands up and goes to help put the now-empty platters in the dishwasher. As he walks over, he absently ruffles Tim’s hair. Tim is left sitting at the dining room table as they all work. It feels… bad to be left out like this. He should be helping! It’s the polite thing to do, after all, but they won’t let him. Tim reigns himself to leaning back in his chair and letting the sound of their conversation wash over him.

Wait a second--

“Sorry, but did you just say that you’re leaving today?” Tim asks, staring at Dick.

Dick smiles apologetically. “Yeah, I have work tomorrow. The kiddos can’t teach themselves how to backflip, after all.”

“Oh,” he says. “Right, that makes sense.” He doesn’t know why he feels like a deflated balloon.

“Hey, don’t worry. I’ll come back next weekend,” Dick promises, crossing the kitchen to kneel in front of Tim.

“Dick practically lives here on the weekends,” Jason chimes in.

Tim regards Dick carefully, mindful to keep his expression neutral. However, Dick doesn’t seem to buy it.

“Aw, come here, Timbit,” Dick says, spreading his arms wide and enveloping Tim in a hug.

“You don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine,” Tim says automatically, but he leans into the hug anyways.

It’s for Dick’s benefit. If Dick is going to miss everyone when he’s in Blüdhaven, then a hug will make him feel better. Right?

Besides, it’s an excellent excuse for Tim to get one of Dick’s excellent hugs. Tim closes his eyes and wraps his arms around Dick in return. They stay like that until Tim wriggles a little and Dick releases him.

“I’ll put the leftovers in some paper bags for you, Master Dick,” Alfred announces.

Dick stands back up and ruffles Tim’s hair. “Thanks, Alfred! You’re the best!” he calls back. Turning back to Tim, he says, “I’m going to go grab my stuff, but you and Jason can go to the front door if you want to give me a tearful sendoff.”

At that, he bounds out of the kitchen and Jason materializes in his place. Robins and their stealthiness, _honestly_. Tim nearly jumps, startled, but manages to keep his face relatively neutral.

“Dick’ll probably pull his car around the front so he can say goodbye,” Jason informs him as Tim stands up and grabs his crutches.

“But--” Tim cuts himself off before he can ask his question. “Okay,” he says instead.

Tilting his head like a baby bird, Jason looks curiously at him as they start walking towards the front entrance of the manor. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing,” Tim replies automatically.

“Didn’t sound like nothing.”

“I just--” Tim sighs. “Didn’t we already say goodbye to him in the kitchen?”

Jason’s eyebrows climb up his face. “That wasn’t a proper goodbye.”

“But Dick hugged me,” Tim points out.

“Still not a proper goodbye. Maybe it would be okay if Dick was in a rush or something, but it’s not an actual Wayne family goodbye unless either Bruce or Alfred nearly cries,” Jason states with a shrug.

Tim frowns, confused. “...isn’t Blüdhaven only a three hour drive away?”

“Yeah, but Dick is nineteen and living on his own. Plus, Bruce and Alfred are secretly worrywarts and big ol’ softies,” Jason blithely informs him. “Dick can take care of himself, but it won’t stop everyone else from fussing over him.”

“Oh,” Tim says, but he falls silent once they reach the front door.

Jason takes a seat on the couch in the foyer and pats the seat next to him. “You should sit down. It might take a few minutes.”

It’s not a bad idea. Tim sits down next to Jason, who immediately pulls out his phone and starts playing tetris. They sit in silence for a few minutes until Dick descends the staircase with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Bruce follows him with a smaller bag tucked under his arm.

“--and remember, be careful with your stitches,” Bruce is saying. “Leslie is going to kill me if she has to redo them. If the healing process is interrupted--”

“--it’ll take longer to heal. I know, B,” Dick interrupts him, but they’re both smiling. They reach the bottom of the stairs and Alfred slips out of one of the adjoining hallways.

“I’ve taken the liberty of placing your leftovers in the backseat of your car, Master Dick,” he announces.

“You’re too good to us, Alf,” Dick says fondly as he heads out the front door. Jason stands up and trails after him, which Tim takes as his cue to follow them as well.

Outside, Dick and Bruce load the bags into the trunk of Dick’s car. The sound of the trunk slamming shut almost sounds like a door closing. Dick turns to face everyone assembled at the front door, hands on his hips. “All right, time for hugs!” he announces.

Jason is the first to pounce, springing forward to give his older brother a big hug. Dick laughs but doesn’t stumble as Jason collides with him. He kisses the top of Jason’s head. “Don’t be afraid to give Dad trouble if he deserves it. Also, stop growing. My little brother isn’t allowed to be taller than me.”

Laughing, Jason steps back and sticks his tongue out at him.

“You’re next, Tim!” Dick calls as he heads over to Tim, sparing Tim the trouble of walking over to him with his crutches.

“You’ve already hugged me,” Tim points out and hopes that he doesn’t look too excited at the prospect of another hug. He wouldn’t want the Waynes to think that he’s weird, or anything.

“Yeah, but that wasn’t a goodbye hug,” Dick says reasonably.

“Oh.” Tim says.

“Come here, dude,” Dick says, laughing as he wraps Tim in a solid, comforting hug. After a minute, Dick pulls away and ruffles Tim’s hair. “Have fun, Timbo. Text me if you need anything.” Before he swoops away, he plants a kiss on the top of Tim’s head just as he did with Jason.

Blinking in surprise, Tim watches as Dick hugs Alfred.

“Let me know if Bruce is being ridiculous and I’ll come down to bug him,” Dick fake-solemnly tells Alfred, though his grin ruins the general effect. “I’ll try the lasagna recipe and let you know how it goes.”

“Do take care, Master Dick,” Alfred says, kissing Dick’s forehead.

Dick kisses Alfred’s cheek in reply before turning to Bruce. “Come here, B,” he says, spreading his arms wide.

Bruce smiles and folds Dick into a hug, pressing his cheek into Dick’s hair. “Stay safe, Dick,” he says simply.

“When do I not?” Dick replies cheekily, earning a single raised eyebrow from Bruce.

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

Dick laughs and leans into the hug for a moment before breaking away. Bruce kisses his forehead before patting his shoulder. “You should probably get going. If you leave now, you could get back to Blüdhaven before nightfall.”

Turning to peer at the sky, Dick sighs. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He looks back at everyone and grins. “Well, I’ll see you on Friday. I love you all!” At that, Dick hops into his car and waves at them before pulling out of the driveway.

Nobody leaves until Dick’s car vanishes from sight. Only then do they begin to file back into the manor; Bruce holds the door open for Tim so he can crutch inside.

“Jason,” Bruce says once they’re all inside, “Make sure to get all of your homework done tonight.”

Pausing at the entrance to the elevator, Jason nods. “Will do.”

Tim keeps his face casual as he hops through the elevator doors. Was that a code of some sort? It certainly sounded like Bruce was telling Jason to finish his homework before patrol. Hmmm.

“I’m going to do some work, but let me know if you need anything,” Jason informs him with a clap on the shoulder before darting into his room.

Tim heads into his own room, hopping over to his desk. On his way over, he snatches the ice pack from earlier off the floor. It’s still cold, so he pops it on his ankle before settling down at the desk. He’s supposed to read twenty more pages of _Much Ado About Nothing_ for tomorrow and he has some biology homework that he should get started on.

* * *

**Chat: Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, and 1 other person**

Dick [10/07, 9:10 PM]: im back in blud! the drive was uneventful :)

Alfred [10/07, 9:15 PM]: Glad to hear it. Did the leftovers that I prepared for you survive your driving unscathed?

Dick [10/07, 9:16 PM]: yes, theyre all fine!! im not THAT bad of a driver, alfred :(

Alfred [10/07, 9:17 PM]: That’s true. I suppose that Master Bruce is a much worse driver than you.

Alfred [10/07, 9:17 PM]: There’s a reason why I don’t let him shop for groceries, you know. Too many poor eggs have met their untimely end in his car.

Bruce [10/07, 9:19 PM]: Hey, I take offense to that.

Alfred [10/07, 9:19 PM]: So did the eggs, or so I would imagine.

Bruce [10/07, 9:20 PM]: I’m glad that your drive went well, Dick. Ace misses you.

_Bruce sent 1 picture_

Jason [10/07, 9:20 PM]: ace is the cutest dog in the whole world. no i will not take constructive criticism.

Tim [10/07, 9:25 PM]: Cute pic! Have fun in Blüdhaven. :)

* * *

For the most part, Tim is left to do his work in relative peace. He manages to complete his homework for tomorrow before he starts sifting through interesting-looking articles to cite in his LinkedIn thinkpieces.

A knock on the door disturbs the relative peace of his room. Tim quickly minimizes the research articles and leans back in his desk chair.

“Yes?” he calls.

The door swings open, revealing Bruce standing in the doorway. He’s still wearing the dad jeans and t-shirt for some metal band that he was wearing earlier that day. Has it really been so long since Bruce took him to Dr. Thompkin’s clinic?

“Hey, Tim,” Bruce greets him. “I brought you another ice pack.” He crosses the room and passes it over to Tim.

“Thanks.” Tim swaps his old ice pack out for the new one.

He steps back from Tim’s desk and smiles at him. “What are you working on?”

With his Jeffrey Anderson research safely hidden away, the only things in Tim’s browser window are minesweeper and a kiwami Japan youtube video on making a knife out of chocolate. “Uh,” Tim says. “I was researching this youtube channel for... a school project. They make knives out of a bunch of different materials.” Hopefully Bruce won’t smell the lie-- Tim hasnt mentioned any research projects to him, but hopefully he won’t pry.

“Is it kiwami Japan?” When Tim nods, Bruce rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Huh. I think I remember Jay and Dick talking about this channel. They really liked the one about the jello knife.”

“I’ll have to watch that one,” Tim replies, watching Bruce cautiously. Why was he here?

Bruce nods to himself, hands in his pockets. “I should let you go to bed. I’m about to go to sleep myself, but I wanted to check in and see if you needed anything.”

There’s no way that Batman goes to sleep at nine-thirty at night. Tim would bet anything that Batman and Robin are about to go out on patrol.

“I’m good, thank you.”

Bruce regards him casually, but it feels like he’s staring into Tim’s soul. “Okay, but don’t hesitate to text one of us if you need anything,” he responds after a moment. “I also wanted to let you know that I’m going to drive you and Jason to school tomorrow. We’ll leave a little on the early side so you’ll have time to get an elevator pass from the front office.”

Tim opens his mouth to protest that he can bike to school and it’s fine, really, but then he remembers his ankle and quickly shuts his mouth. “Thank you,” he says instead.

“We’ll leave at eight tomorrow morning. Do you think you’ll need one of us to come wake you up?” Bruce asks. “Jason has a habit of sleeping through his alarms, so either Alfred or I will be around anyways.”

“I’m fine with waking up on my own,” Tim says honestly. “Don’t worry about me.”

Bruce half-smiles and nods. “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he says warmly as he heads back to the door. Pausing momentarily to glance over his shoulder, Bruce’s half-smile briefly morphs into a full smile. “Good night, Tim.”

“Good night, Bruce,” Tim replies automatically. He waits for the door to close and counts to ten before he pulls up his research articles again. Gotham’s Shadow can’t go on patrol, but there’s no reason why Jeffrey Anderson can’t get some work done.

* * *

Tim can’t sleep.

He lays in the comfortable albeit unfamiliar bed for what feels like hours until he finally gives in and checks his phone. The lock screen cheerfully shows him the time, _1:31 AM_ , in white font overlaying one of his photographs of Gotham’s skyline at night.

Great. He has about five and half hours left to get some sleep, but his body stubbornly refuses to relax. Well, if he can’t sleep, he might as well do something interesting. Tim reluctantly opens a paint by numbers app and is just starting to add a nice dusty pink to some flowers when the bedroom door opens a crack. He freezes, eyes immediately gravitating to the door, and he finds Bruce Wayne looking back at him.

“Sorry for waking you,” Bruce whispers through the narrowly opened door. “I’m just checking in on all of you.” Translation: he just got back from patrol and wanted to make sure that nobody died in their sleep while he was away.

Tim shrugs. “I was already awake.”

He nods absently before asking, “Do you need me to get you anything before I go?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“All right. Good night, sport. See you in the morning.” With that, Bruce ducks out of the room. The door closes softly behind him and then it’s almost as if Bruce was never there in the first place.

Tim puts his phone down and pulls the blankets up to his chin. Maybe he just needs to lie there for a bit longer.

Time blurs into an incoherent mass of grays and deep blues, the same color as the shadows around his room. Eventually-- finally-- Tim falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that you know that Tim's ankle is sprained, I can finally reveal my secret. In all of my personal writing notes, I've been referring to Tim's sprained ankle as his "sprankle". Please enjoy this tidbit; it was crafted with love. 
> 
> Thank you to my beta reader, [S](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolateandsilver), for lending me their reading comprehension because I Don't Read! I'd also like to thank [goldkirk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldkirk/pseuds/goldkirk) for looking over this chapter and for lending me their brain!
> 
> As always, thank you all for reading!!!!! <3 <3 <3


	7. got nothing to believe, can't you see it on my face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slowly but surely, Tim settles into life at Wayne Manor and learns a few things along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back, y'all! Sorry for the brief pause in updates-- my family just moved out of our house and I spent the past 3 days driving. I finally have the energy to write and edit now that I'm no longer driving all day. My update schedule looks like it'll return to updating every 2-3 days rather than once per week. I'm excited to get back into the swing of things!! 
> 
> (I'm especially excited to not be stuck driving all day or staring at the picture of the lady on the back of my mom's uhaul. The uhaul lady stares into your very soul and I was stuck looking at her for 3 days while I drove behind my mom. She taunted me with her cute little bandana and her packing tape. Please know that I have complained extensively to my beta about the uhaul lady and her generally menacing aura.)
> 
> I'm dedicating this chapter to the uhaul lady out of spite. 
> 
> Chapter title is from Deep Water by American Authors. 
> 
> Last updated on 07/20/2020.
> 
>  **CWs:** none

As usual, Tim’s alarm blasts the sound of distressingly cheerful chimes at seven in the morning.

Groaning, Tim rolls over and hits the “stop” button on his phone’s screen. He takes a moment to blink at the ceiling above him before he remembers the events of the previous day. Sprained ankle. Wayne Manor. Right. He drags himself out of bed and uses his crutches to hobble over to the bathroom so he can shower before facing the horrors of Gotham Academy.

Thirty minutes later, Tim emerges from his bedroom fully dressed in his school uniform with damp hair and clean teeth. His backpack bumps against his back as he crutches over to the elevator. He had to remove his textbooks from his bag to make it more comfortable for him to carry around while he hopped everywhere on his crutches.

He smells the kitchen before he sees it. It smells absolutely _amazing_ , like some combination of vanilla and cinnamon. Tim inhales deeply as he crutches into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Master Tim,” Alfred greets him from the stove. He’s wearing an apron as he flips pancakes, occasionally stopping to stir a pan full of something gooey and delicious-looking. “Breakfast today will be buttermilk pancakes with a caramelized apple sauce.”

“Thank you,” Tim croaks as he takes a seat at the table. He sets his backpack down next to his chair and uses the backpack to brace the bottom of his crutches as they lean against the wall.

Bruce is already seated in his usual spot, head buried in a newspaper. A coffee mug proclaiming him to be the _WORLD’S BEST DAD_ sits to his right. He glances up with bleary eyes and catches Tim staring at his mug. “Want coffee?” Bruce grunts.

Too tired for words, Tim nods. Bruce stands up and roots around in one of the cabinets for a mug before he heads over to a fancy-looking coffee machine on the counter. Despite the glazed look in his eyes, Bruce has no problem pouring a mug of coffee for Tim and grabbing a bottle of creamer from the fridge. He sets the mug and pitcher in front of Tim before wordlessly sitting back down.

“Thanks,” Tim mumbles as he pours a splash of creamer into his coffee. The bottle proclaims it to be caramel macchiato-flavored creamer.

Batman likes caramel macchiatos, apparently. Who knew?

It’s too early for revelations of that magnitude, so Tim sips at his coffee until Alfred plates a plate heaped with pancakes and a dish of the caramel apple sauce on the table.

“Thank you,” Tim says as Bruce grunts something that vaguely resembles the words _thank you_. They both heap their plates with food and eat in silence until Jason stumbles into the kitchen.

Jason plops down in the seat next to Tim and immediately starts loading his plate with pancakes and the caramel apple sauce. He eats mechanically, drowsily staring into the middle distance. Two pancakes later, Jason seems marginally more awake and he casts a questioning look at Tim’s mug.

“...you let him have coffee?” Jason asks Bruce, a hint of a whine in his voice.

Bruce shrugs. “Tim’s a guest,” he rumbles.

Jason’s eyes narrow and Tim can practically see him scheming. “Can I have coffee?”

Bruce stares at Jason for a long moment with tired eyes before he shrugs. “Fine. Half a cup.”

“Thanks, B!” Smiling, Jason bounces over to the coffee machine and pours himself a cup. Tim watches the process for a moment before he returns to eating his pancakes. Food is important. Food is good.

After they all finish eating, Bruce grabs everyone’s plate and puts it in the dishwasher. “You two should start heading over to the car,” he calls over his shoulder. His coffee must have worked its magic because his eyes are significantly clearer than they were at the beginning of breakfast.

“Will do!” Jason replies before turning to Tim. “It’s garage time, Timmy. Let’s go!”

Together, they amble through the manor and into the door connecting the main house to the garage. Bruce appears a few minutes later, a travel mug clutched in one hand and a briefcase in the other.

“Who gets control of the AUX cord?” Jason asks as he fastens his seatbelt.

Bruce turns around to look at them. “Well, Tim hasn’t had a turn yet. Do you have any music you want to play, sport?”

Tim blinks in surprise. “Um,” he says eloquently. “No. Jason can have my turn.”

“You sure?” Jason asks, peering at him. Tim nods and Jason shrugs. “All right. Hang on, let me connect to the car’s bluetooth…”

As Bruce reverses out of the garage, the sounds of Drunk in Love by Beyoncé fill the car. Jason seems to brighten as he mouths along to the words. Tim catches Bruce glancing at them in the rearview mirror as the corners of his mouth tilt up into a smile. The rest of the drive is quiet except for the sound of Jason’s music.

All in all, it’s surprisingly easy to acquire an elevator pass for Tim. The secretary in Gotham Academy’s front office takes one look at his crutches and his foot, which is wrapped in ace bandages, and only makes him sign a form before she hands the pass over. She even gives Jason a hall pass so he can carry Tim’s backpack for him and won’t get in trouble with teachers if it makes him late to class, which is awfully nice of both of them.

Jason carries Tim’s books to his English class before cheerfully waving goodbye and darting out of the classroom. This earns Tim more than a few looks and a few whispers of _wasn’t that Bruce Wayne’s kid?_ , but that dies down once class starts.

School is school: occasionally interesting, but mostly boring. Jason carries Tim’s backpack for him between classes. Tim goes to the debate team’s biweekly meeting during lunch and silently looks through that week’s assigned debate reading. The other students make a few attempts to talk to him, but for the most part, they’re too involved in their discussion of which Ivy League colleges consider them legacies to try to rope him in.

By the end of the day, Tim is more than ready to go back to the manor. Jason meets him outside of his classroom and they head over to the pick-up area together. To Tim’s surprise, Bruce is the one waiting in the black Bentley.

“Hi, B,” Jason greets him as he slides into the back seat.

“Hi, Bruce,” Tim echoes, frowning slightly. Bruce is wearing what look like his work clothes, but it’s three o’clock. Did a meeting go badly and that’s why he’s not at work? He resolves to wait a few minutes to determine Bruce’s mood before it’s safe to ask about it.

“Hi, kids,” Bruce replies as they pull out of the pick-up line and head onto the main road. “How was school?”

Tim’s frown deepens. Is he worried about their grades or something? Maybe Jason had a big test today, but he hasn’t mentioned anything about a test...

“That bad, huh?” Bruce asks, smiling.

Startled out of his thoughts, Tim blinks. “What? Oh-- no, school was fine. I went to the debate team’s meeting during lunch.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “How did that go? Back when I was in school, I remember the debate team being a bunch of stuck-up idiots.”

Tim shrugs. “It was fine,”

“And the rest of your day?” What is this, an interrogation?

“Nothing of consequence happened.”

Bruce makes a noncommittal noise and switches tactics. “How was your day, Jason?”

“Pretty good. My chem teacher let us start a small fire today.” Jason sounds very pleased about that. “We took a Bunsen burner and put different kinds of metal powders in it so the fire turned different colors. It was fun.”

“Ah, the rainbow fire experiment.” Bruce nods knowledgeably. “You know, back when Dick was in school, the teacher forgot to turn off the fire alarm when he did it. The sprinklers turned on and flooded the science hallway. Dick loved it because everyone was allowed to go home early.”

Jason snorts. “Well, they remembered to turn off the alarms this time.”

Bruce laughs. “I suppose they did. Shame. Lucius and I were trapped in a meeting with some of our investors that could’ve used a convenient interruption. We could’ve taken two you out for ice cream.”

So Bruce had an important-sounding meeting and it was boring. It’s strange, though. He seems to be in a relatively good mood, but Tim still can’t figure out why Bruce left work to come pick him and Jason up from school. Maybe he had to leave anyways because Batman had business to attend to? Yes, that makes the most sense. At least it would explain why Bruce doesn’t appear to be angry.

After the car pulls into the garage, Jason hops out and grabs Tim’s backpack for him. “Wanna do homework in the den?”

“Sure,” Tim shrugs.

Twenty minutes later, Jason’s papers spread out in a circle on the floor of the den. He sits in the middle, poring over some of his chemistry notes. Tim watches him from where he’s tucked himself into the corner of the sofa, his copy of _Much Ado About Nothing_ resting on his lap. Ace is lying down on his side next to Jason’s nest of papers.

“I just don’t get why we have to learn how to balance chemical equations. I’m a junior and this is freshman stuff.” Jason shoots a glance towards Tim. “No offense, Tim.”

“None taken.”

“It’s just that we’ve already learned this stuff. I don’t see why we should be tested on it again. But stuff like learning the right way to combine chemicals? Learning how to make acid? Now _that’s_ useful. Not this stupid stuff about how many oxygen molecules are needed for this reaction.” Throwing his hands in the air in frustration, Jason flops down onto the papers behind him.

Ace lifts his head to glance at Jason before lowering it again and closing his eyes.

Tim raises an eyebrow. This might be a bad question, but he can’t resist poking Jason to see what his reaction will be. “Why do you need to learn how to make acid?”

Lifting his head to peer over at Tim, Jason shrugs. “Heists,” he says simply.

“Heists?” He’s careful to keep his face neutral.

Jason nods seriously. “Exactly. Dick told me that Bruce has stashes of junk food hidden throughout the house. What if I need acid for a junk food heist?”

“Please don’t melt my house down just to get your hands on my chips,” Bruce calls as he walks past the den.

Sitting upright, Jason cups his hands over his mouth and hollers, “I wouldn’t have to do that if you would stop hogging them!” He shakes his head in mock disappointment. “Honestly, dads these days. Aren’t I right, Timmy?”

Tim shrugs and goes back to his book. “Sure.”

Jason gasps dramatically. “You wound me.”

Tim smiles and turns the page.

* * *

Working with someone else in the room is _weird_. Tim is used to being able to walk around his house and think out loud without anyone around to ask what he’s doing. Transitioning to working quietly on the couch isn’t unheard of for him-- it’s what he does when his parents are home, after all-- but Wayne Manor is just so lively.

Every now and then, crinkling of paper and shifting floorboards will herald Jason standing up to stretch or get something from his backpack. Ace’s tail occasionally wags in his sleep, thumping against the floor. Sometimes, snatches of Bruce and Alfred’s conversations from other parts of the manor will drift into the room.

It’s not _that_ loud, but it’s certainly louder than Tim is used to. Like he said, it’s weird.

Bruce occasionally pops his head into the room to ask what they’re doing. At first, he smiles and nods when Tim tells him that he’s studying. However, as it grows closer to dinnertime, Jason starts playing games on his phone as Tim pages through his book for quotes to use for an upcoming English essay.

“Are you still working, Tim?” Bruce asks, a touch of worry in his face.

Tim stiffens slightly and closes his book. Does Bruce think that he’s working too slowly? “Yes?” he replies warily. “I understand the material and I’m working as quickly as possible. My teachers assigned me a lot of homework today.”

The hint of worry on Bruce’s face doesn’t disappear. If anything, Tim’s reply seems to magnify it. “You don’t need to rush, Tim.”

“I’m not rushing. I promise that I’m being careful and double-checking my work.”

This also seems to be the wrong answer. Bruce sighs and Tim watches him carefully, but Bruce only shakes his head. “Okay, let’s reset. What I mean to say is maybe you should take a break. Dinner is almost ready. After dinner, how about you work for an hour and then take time to relax?”

Tim blinks at him. “What?”

“You’ve been working nonstop since we got back from school,” Jason pipes in from his spot on the floor next to Ace. His nest of papers disappeared into his backpack a while ago.

“Yeah, because I have a lot of homework.” What is Bruce trying to say?

Bruce crosses the room and sits across from Tim on the couch. “How much of it is due tomorrow?”

“I’ve already completed everything due tomorrow, but I have a few papers and long-term projects that I want to work on.” Tim untucks his legs from under himself so he’s sitting properly. Bruce probably hates it when people put their feet on the furniture.

“Okay, so why don’t you save that for later? You’ve been working for over four hours without a break, Tim,” Bruce points out.

“We can play Mario Kart after dinner,” Jason suggests. “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

Tim bites his lip. On one hand, he needs to make sure that he gets an A on all of his projects. On the other hand, Bruce and Jason are both asking him to stop working. “Fine,” he acquiesces. Maybe he can sneak in some studying after Jason goes to bed and Bruce goes on patrol.

Jason cheers. “Great! It’s just Mario Kart, Tim, not torture. It’ll be fun.”

Ace’s tail thumps against the floor and Bruce leans over to scratch him behind his ears. “Good. Oh, and Tim, I wanted to let you know that I was able to get in touch with your parents this afternoon. They agreed to let you stay here until they return.”

Jealousy curls in Tim’s stomach before he can stop it. Why did his parents talk to Bruce but not Tim? Maybe they were busy; they probably have a lot of work to do. Yes, that must be it. “Oh, thanks for letting me know,” Tim replies.

Bruce smiles right as his phone buzzes. He takes it out of his pocket and squints at it before announcing, “Alfred says that dinner is ready. Let’s go eat, shall we?”

* * *

To: Gotham’s Shadow <shadow@gothamphotography.com>

From: James Gordon <jgordon@gcpd.gov>

_October 11th, 9:29 PM (1 hour ago)_

Subject: Check in

Hi Shadow,

I haven’t heard from you for a while. You mentioned investigating the Escabedo warehouses and there were reports of multiple shots fired near them last Saturday. Let me know if you’re still alive and kicking, okay?

Best,

Jim Gordon

* * *

To: James Gordon <jgordon@gcpd.gov>

From: Gotham’s Shadow <shadow@gothamphotography.com>

_October 11th, 10:44 PM (just now)_

Subject: Re: Check in

Dear Commissioner Gordon,

I am unharmed. I had to leave town for a few weeks for an emergency. If you could please keep me in the loop about the situation involving the Odessa mob and the Escabedo Cartel, I would greatly appreciate it.

Take care.

Best regards,

Gotham’s Shadow

* * *

Before he knows it, Tim finds himself slowly but surely settling into a routine. Wayne Manor’s confusing hallways steadily become more and more familiar, as do the habits of its residents.

Here is what Tim learns:

Out of all of the Waynes, only Alfred and Dick are morning people. Dick likes going for runs in the morning to wake up, which Tim doesn’t understand but is willing to accept as long as Dick doesn’t force him to run with him. Alfred tends to wake up early to prepare breakfast and, on occasion, knead bread dough so it may be baked later that day. On the other hand, Jason typically isn’t alert until he's had food. Bruce needs coffee and to read the morning newspaper before he’s truly awake. He’s fond of ridiculous flavored creamers that Tim enjoys and Alfred hates. Still, Alfred doesn’t do much more than occasionally raise an eyebrow and pointedly ask whether Bruce would like a whole chocolate bar melted into his coffee.

After breakfast, Alfred is happy to let Tim meander around the kitchen. He usually explains what he’s doing without Tim having to ask first. Sometimes, he’ll ask if Tim would like to help chop vegetables or stir a pot. While he oversees Tim sauteing some onions for French onion soup, Alfred explains things like non-enzymatic reactions and how the pyrolysis of sugar results in the onions caramelizing. His knowledge of food science is frankly terrifying, but Tim appreciates how he’s always willing to walk Tim through what he’s doing.

After the Bacon Incident, Tim learns that Bruce is Not To Be Trusted in the kitchen. The emphasis is important. Bacon grease, as it turns out, is extremely flammable.

Two days before Jason has an important project due in his history class, Tim walks into the kitchen and finds part of the kitchen island taken over by cupcakes. Jason wears a flour-dusted floral apron and is in the process of adding butter to the stand mixer. As it turns out, Jason likes to stress bake. Tim can’t complain-- after all, the double chocolate cupcakes were delicious.

(Bruce brings the leftover cupcakes “to work”, but Tim strongly suspects that he fed them to the Justice League. He mentioned that someone called “Clark” liked the cupcakes, but Tim can’t find any records of Wayne Enterprises employing anyone named “Clark”. At least, nobody who would be high-ranking enough to interact with Bruce.)

Jason likes barging into Tim's room to show him funny memes that he could've easily texted to him. It’s strange having someone come into his room, but Tim finds that he doesn’t really mind the company. Plus, he has to admit that the whole "Harry Styles is secretly Batman" theory that Jason found on Twitter is actually pretty funny.

Tim learns that Ace's favorite chew toy is a purple dragon. When asked, he will sprint off to go fetch his dragon. It’s absolutely adorable.

He finds out that Bruce tells awful dad jokes when Jason complains about being hungry. Without a beat, Bruce replies, “Hi hungry, I’m Dad.” In response, Jason hit him with a pillow and their homework session quickly devolves into a pillow fight. (Bruce fights _dirty._ )

The next day, Jason gets an A on his math test. As a reward, Bruce takes Jason out for ice cream. He even brings Tim along even though he wasn’t the one who did well on a test. Jason gets strawberry ice cream, Tim gets cookies and cream, and Bruce gets mint chocolate chip.

* * *

To: Timothy Jackson Drake <tjdrake@drake.com>

From: Janet Lynn Drake <jldrake@drake.com>

_October 18th, 12:01 AM (8 hours ago)_

Subject: Re: Change of plan

Thank you, sweetie. Good luck with your sprained ankle and make sure to be a good guest for the Waynes.

We’ll be back in a week. In the meantime, look at these gorgeous photos that I took when we were in the Andes!

Love,

Mom

Attached:

Andes Santiago view 1.jpg

Andes Santiago view 2.jpg

Andes alpaca.jpg

Andes cloud forests.jpg

* * *

To: Janet Lynn Drake <jldrake@drake.com>

From: Timothy Jackson Drake <tjdrake@drake.com>

_October 18th, 8:14 AM (just now)_

Subject: Re: Change of plan

Hi Mom,

Those pictures are lovely; the Andes must be beautiful. I would love to see more pictures if you have them. You and Dad will have to tell me all about your trip once you’re home!

Are you in Brazil now? How is it?

Do you have a timeframe for when you’ll return? I know that you and Dad must be tired from how busy you’ve been and I’d love to do something special to mark your return.

I can’t wait for you to come home. I love and miss you both!

Sincerely,

Tim

* * *

On the evening of Friday the 14th, Tim and Jason are sprawled out on the couch in Jason’s room as Tim watches Jason play the Untitled Goose Game.

“I’m just saying, I think you should be able to poop on people--” Jason cuts himself off as his gaze shoots to his open door. “You’re back!” he cries, launching himself at his older brother.

Dick laughs and wraps Jason in an enormous hug. “Bruce is letting you poop on people now? He never let me do that when I was your age.”

“Maybe it’s because you were already a little shit!” Jason chirps, stepping back to avoid Dick’s attempt to tickle him.

Tim freezes. Is Dick angry? Are they going to fight? Should he leave? They’re blocking the door, but he could escape into the bathroom if he really needs to--

His train of thought is cut off as Dick dives for one of the decorative pillows on Jason’s bed. Cackling, Dick whacks Jason with the pillow.

Tim watches, bewildered, as their heartwarming reunion quickly devolves into a lighthearted pillow fight. They don’t use any fancy fighting moves that they couldn’t be expected to know, but Dick is unnervingly good at somersaulting away from Jason’s pillow. The pillow fight ends with them both on the floor as Dick does something with his legs to pin Jason’s arms.

“It’s over, Anakin. I have the high ground,” Dick announces dramatically. He gives Jason one final whack in the face with a pillow before releasing him. Jason sticks out his tongue at Dick before crossing the room to wrap Tim in a hug.

Still tense from the fight, Tim leans into Jason’s hug and closes his eyes. Why are all of the Waynes so good at hugging?

* * *

“Slow cookers are wonderful for cooking when you have a busy day planned,” Alfred says as he carefully watches Tim chop kale. “Most slow cooker recipes only require a few minutes of preparation and can be left unsupervised for eight to ten hours.”

“That sounds nice,” Tim says as he carefully scoops the chopped kale into a bowl. “I could start dinner and still not be late to school.”

Alfred’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Precisely. I shall send you the recipe for this kale and lentil soup. It’s one of Master Bruce’s favorites. It’s also excellent for growing children, as kale contains lots of calcium and iron.”

“Huh,” Tim says as he measures out the dried lentils. “Well, it looks good already.”

“Just wait until it’s done cooking, Master Tim. It will be delicious. Now, would you mind peeling these carrots for me? I need to check on the sourdough.”

* * *

Cameras are incredible devices. Digital cameras take light and, through a complex combination of lenses, focus it onto an array of sensors where it’s converted into pixels. However, an unfortunate drawback of such sensitive devices is that they need to be regularly cleaned and maintained. Tim’s ankle may prevent him from frolicking around Gotham, but he still needs to tend to his camera.

He sits on his bed with his camera cleaning supplies arranged in front of him. First, he pulls on a pair of latex gloves to avoid accidentally getting his fingerprints on the lenses. Next, he wipes down the body of his camera with a microfiber cloth.

The next (and most harrowing) step is to clean the lenses. Careful to avoid touching the body of the lens, Tim removes the lens from his camera and uses a tiny brush to remove any dust. His hands shake a little; lenses are expensive and if he’d rather not risk his parents noticing if he used their credit card to buy a new one. (Not that they’ve ever noticed before, but he’d rather avoid any unnecessary risks.)

He picks up a clean microfiber cloth and begins to slowly wipe down the lens. Just as he’s about to pick up his camera to put the lens back inside, the door to his room opens.

“Hey Timmy, guess what--” Jason calls as his door slams open.

Tim jumps a mile high and fumbles the lens, nearly dropping it onto his bed. “ _Shit_ ,” he says feelingly.

Jason pauses, taking in the situation, before he slowly closes the door behind himself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Is the lens okay?”

He holds it up to the light to check for any scratches. Finding none, he nods. “Yeah, it’s fine.” It might need to be cleaned again, but he can’t see any lasting damage.

“Oh, good.” Jason says, dragging the desk chair over to the bed and taking a seat. “That’s a fancy camera. I didn’t know that you’re into photography.”

Tim hums noncommittally and starts brushing dust from the lens again. “I dabble,” he evades.

“Dabble, huh?” Jason jerks his chin towards all of the photography equipment covering Tim’s bed. “I’d hate to see what it looks like when you dive headfirst into a hobby.”

He silently shrugs in response and wipes down the lens. Even without looking, he can feel Jason watching him.

“You know,” he begins, “If you wanted, Bruce would probably let you do photoshoots around the manor and the grounds.”

Tim wrangles the newly cleaned lens back inside the camera before he replies, “I guess.”

“Does Bruce know?”

He lifts his head from his camera. “Does Bruce know what?”

“That you do photography.”

Years of practice keep Tim from freezing. “I haven’t told him.”

Jason leans back in the chair, frowning. “Why not? I bet you’re really good, Tim.”

Tim shrugs. “I don’t know. It feels weird when other people see my photos.” Avoiding Jason’s attempts to make eye contact, he busies himself with wiping down the outside of the camera again.

“He wouldn’t have to see your pictures. I mean, I think all of us would love to see your work, but we wouldn’t have to.” Jason pauses, eyes narrowing. “You don’t have to be scared of Bruce or hide stuff from him, you know. He’s not going to stop you from taking photos or judge you or anything. If anything, he’ll read a bunch of articles on photography and then buy you an obnoxious amount of equipment.”

A soft huff of laughter escapes from Tim before he can stifle it. “I’m not hiding anything,” he defends. “It’s just that I don’t usually show my photos to other people.”

There’s a long pause as Jason watches him continue to clean the camera. At last, he says, “I could mention it to him if you don’t want to tell him. I think he’d be thrilled, honestly. It’s a cool hobby and I’m sure that you’re really good at it. None of us will go snooping around for your photos if you don’t want us to.”

Tim shrugs. “If you want,” he says.

Jason leans forward, eyes bright. “So you want me to tell him?”

If he says yes, then he’ll hand Bruce a way to link Tim to Gotham’s Shadow. If he says no, then he’ll look suspicious and Bruce might start sniffing around more. It feels like there’s no right answer. Looks like Tim will have to pick his poison.

“Sure,” he replies. “I don’t mind either way.”

“All right,” Jason says, watching him carefully. “It looks like you’re busy, so-- see you later?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as Jason stands up and walks out of his room. The door closes behind him with a quiet click, leaving Tim to continue cleaning his camera in peace.

* * *

“Hey, kids,” Bruce says with a tired smile as he walks into the den. “What are you up to?”

Jason glances up from where he’s sprawled on the floor with his homework. “Studying for my biology quiz. Can you, like, pay some scientist to get rid of the Krebs cycle so I never have to hear about it again?”

Laughing, Bruce takes a seat on the couch next to Tim. “That might be hard to do, sport. I’ll look into it.” He glances over at Tim and smiles. “How about you, Tim? How are you doing?” He’s still dressed in a button-up shirt and slacks from work, but he doesn’t seem to care about wrinkling them as he leans back into the couch.

Tim looks up from his math notes and shrugs. “I’m well. My ankle isn’t bothering me much anymore, which is nice.”

Evidently, this wasn’t the answer that Bruce is looking for. “And what about the rest of your day? Did you do anything fun?” he presses.

“Well, I had another debate meeting today. We actually ended up getting through a few example prompts, which was a nice change from the usual.” Tim closes his math notes and turns to face Bruce. “The prompts weren’t particularly interesting. Something about getting rid of pennies, I think?”

Jason makes a face. “Sounds like an AP Lang prompt.”

“I guess. I don’t take that until junior year, I think.” Tim half-shrugs and watches Bruce cautiously, waiting for his reaction. What does he want? Ever since Tim arrived at Wayne Manor, Bruce has routinely subjected him to questions about his activities. He’s still not entirely sure what Bruce wants to hear, but he’s usually satisfied after extracting a few inane details about Tim’s day. Bruce’s interrogations aren’t necessarily harmful, just confusing.

Bruce chuckles. “Sounds like fun,” he says drily. “And the rest of your day was good too, then?”

Tim nods. “Nothing particularly interesting happened. We didn’t have any quizzes or tests today, and I don’t have anything important due until next week.”

“Hmmm.” Running a hand through his dark hair, Bruce seems lost in thought for a moment before he asks, “Have you heard anything from your parents recently?”

Even without looking at Jason, Tim can practically feel him listening in. Something about Jason’s presence keeps Tim from panicking; after all, Bruce probably wouldn’t yell at Tim in front of Jason. He’s most likely safe for now, so he shrugs and picks at a folded corner of his math notes. “They emailed me on the 18th to say that they’ll be back in a week.”

“Right, I remember. But they haven’t told you anything since then?” Bruce is still using his Bruce Wayne voice, but his eyes are Batman-cold. Something is bothering him.

“I could email them again if you want,” he offers.

“They don’t text?” Jason asks casually.

Tim shrugs. “International phone numbers and SIM cards can get hard to deal with,” he deflects, staring down at his hands.

Bruce’s steely gaze flits over Tim’s face. Tim stays very still as Bruce looks at him. Finally, he asks, “Is this typical behavior for them?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean contacting you so sporadically. How many times have they talked to you in the past month?”

Tim frowns. “They’ve emailed me four times and called once. Why?” For his parents, that counts as pretty frequent communication.

“That’s about one email every week.” Bruce sighs and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’ll be honest, Tim. I don’t like how your parents are comfortable with leaving you without contacting you for so long, let alone your lack of supervision before you started staying with us.”

“It’s no big deal. They’re busy, so I guess they forget. Besides, they’ve got problems too and I can take care of myself,” Tim defends. “I can cook and clean up after myself. I can get to and from school. They even left me with one of their credit cards so I can buy whatever I need. I don’t need to be watched like a child.”

“Tim,” Bruce says patiently, “That may be true, but you shouldn’t have to take care of yourself like that. You’re thirteen, so you’re still legally a child. Just because you have financial resources doesn’t mean that you’re in a good situation.”

Tim frowns. “But my situation _is_ good,” he snaps. “My parents are busy people. Between the two of them, they’re running an entire company _and_ doing important archaeological research.”

Jason looks up from his biology notes. “You’re important too, Tim,” He points out gently.

“Yes, but so is my parents’ work. They have a lot of responsibilities.”

“Tim--”

“They know that they don’t need to watch me constantly because I’m more than capable of doing it myself.”

“ _Tim.”_

The weight of Bruce’s gaze sends shivers skittering through Tim’s skin. His chest feels tight. “What?” he replies crankily.

“Just because you can take care of yourself doesn’t mean that you should,” Bruce says calmly. “Will you at least stay here until your parents return?”

“Fine,” he growls as he gathers his math notes, shoving them into his backpack. Jason watches him pack up his work with a sad frown, but he doesn’t try to stop him.

“Okay, thank you.” Bruce only watches as Tim shrugs on his backpack and crutches out of the room. Something flickers in his eyes, but Tim can’t quite tell what it is. All he knows is that whatever it is, he doesn’t like it.

“Do you still want to play Super Smash Bros later?” Jason asks as Tim hops through the doorway.

Pausing, Tim sighs and drops his head for a moment. “Yeah, sure,” he replies before continuing on his merry way.

Tim fumes all the way over to the elevator and into his room. He angrily drops his backpack next to his desk and slides into his desk chair. Why can’t people just leave him alone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to my amazing beta, [S](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolateandsilver)! Also, shoutout to all of my irl friends (including the lovely S) for answering my random calls while I was driving and chatting with me to keep me from getting bored. They're the real MVPs. S deserves a special shoutout for listening to my long rants about the uhaul lady. (I am so sick of staring at the lady on the back of my mom's uhaul, y'all. I spent several days with her staring me down as I drove over 800 miles. Save me.)
> 
> I genuinely love each and every comment that I receive. Your love and support means so much to me!! I'll do my best to reply to y'all, but even if it takes a while to get around to it, please know that I roll around in happiness whenever I get a new comment. Thank you all so much for reading and supporting this fic!! <3 <3 <3


	8. if you listen real closely, there's a knock at your front door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, Tim's parents come back and Tim's life can finally go back to normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Blood // Water by grandson.
> 
> Recommended listening for this chapter is The Imperial March [[link]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-bzWSJG93P8). (Okay, not really, but the mood is appropriate!)
> 
> Last updated on 07/20/2020.
> 
>  **CW:** Like I mentioned in the summary, Tim's parents return in this chapter. As a result, the overarching undertones of abuse and neglect turn into overtones in this chapter. In particular, there is an instance of **anxiety-induced vomiting** and there are strong themes of **emotional abuse**. Please take care of yourselves!! <3

Tim’s phone lights up with an email notification while Tim and Jason are eating lunch in Tim’s usual corner of the library. He sets his sandwich down and unlocks his phone.

“--and then I told Dick that Lightning McQueen is obviously the hottest character in Cars,” Jason continues as Tim opens the email.

* * *

To: Timothy Jackson Drake <tjdrake@drake.com>

From: Janet Lynn Drake <jldrake@drake.com>

_October 24th, 12:14 PM (1 minute ago)_

Subject: Return

We’ll be back sometime during the evening of October 25th.

* * *

The email is bare bones, no introduction or signature. Still, Tim’s heart soars.

Jason pauses his rant and peers at Tim. “What’s up? Is something wrong?”

Tim looks up from his phone as a smile spreads across his face. “My parents are coming home tomorrow.”

“Oh, nice!” He leans over to nudge Tim with his shoulder. “I know you’ve been looking forward to them coming back. D’you think you’re gonna do anything special when they return?”

“I don’t know, I’ll need to plan something. Maybe I’ll cook dinner for them? I bet that they’ll be hungry after so much traveling.” Tim drums his fingers on his thigh as he thinks. “The other day, Alfred showed me how to make baked salmon with garlic, lemon, and some herbs and stuff. I could make that and roast some asparagus with it. What do you think?”

“That sounds amazing. They’re gonna love it, Tim.” Jason reaches over and ruffles Tim’s hair. “Here, I’ll text Alfred and ask if he could pick up the ingredients for you.”

“I don’t want to make him run any extra errands,” Tim argues weakly, but a single raised eyebrow from Jason makes him quiet down.

“What do you think Alfred will say? Do you really think that he’s going to refuse to help you get ingredients to make dinner for your parents whom you haven’t seen in-- how long has it been?”

Glancing down at his hands, Tim mumbles, “They left in mid-August.”

“Two months, then. If anything, Alfred is going to be ecstatic that you’re using one of his recipes. I bet he’ll shed a single tear all dramatic-like.”

Tim cracks a smile. “Your entire family is dramatic.”

“Buncha drama llamas, we are,” Jason says fondly, lighty knocking his foot against Tim’s shin as he takes out his phone.

* * *

That night, Bruce drives Tim the short distance from Wayne Manor to Drake Manor. Jason insists on coming along because of course he does. The car pulls up in front of Drake Manor and Tim hops out of the car, staring up at its silent exterior.

Bruce opens the trunk and grabs Tim’s duffel bag while Jason takes his night backpack. He tries to also pick up Tim’s school backpack, but Tim shoos him away. Instead, Jason grabs the overflowing bags of groceries that Alfred insisted he take.

“I can take that. I’m not on crutches anymore; I’m capable of carrying my own things now,” Tim says as he slings his backpack over his shoulder.

“But you will still take the crutches just in case you need them,” Bruce informs him as he removes the crutches from the trunk. “Just because you’ve graduated to a walking boot doesn’t mean that you’re invulnerable.”

“Yeah, I know.” With a sigh, Tim turns and walks the short distance to the front door. It unlocks with a click, exposing the darkened interior. He’s barely been home since spraining his ankle except for when he returned to bring more clothes over.

Without any people in it, the manor feels like a ghost house. Tim turns on the living room lights and heads up the stairs. Bruce and Jason follow him. He tries to pretend like he doesn’t notice them looking around as they take in the house.

He nudges open his bedroom door and drops his school backpack next to his desk. “You can put my stuff down wherever.”

Bruce sets the duffel bag and crutches down next to Tim’s bed. Jason adds Tim’s night backpack to the pile before walking back into the hallway.

“I’m gonna put away the groceries,” he shouts over his shoulder.

“Thanks!” Tim calls back.

The room is quiet for a moment as Bruce glances around before his eyes settle on Tim. “I know that your parents are coming back tomorrow, but you know that you can call us at any time, right? The reason doesn’t matter. You can be sad or scared or injured or happy. And if you want one of us to come get you, we will. It can be the middle of the night and we’ll come. All right?”

Tim nods, chewing on the inside of his lip. “I know.” Not that he’ll need it, but the offer is nice.

Bruce watches him for a moment before nodding, seemingly satisfied. “Okay. I’m going to help Jason with the groceries.” He reaches out and pats Tim on the shoulder. Tim gives him a half smile before Bruce strides out of his room.

“Dude, why do you have eight different kinds of organic jam in your fridge?” Jason hollers up the stairs.

“They’re good in sandwiches!” Tim yells back. He glances around his room before scurrying down the stairs to help unload the groceries.

* * *

The next day, Tim practically bounces in his seat as Alfred drives him and Jason back from their book club meeting. He was so excited that he could barely pay attention to the discussion of Toni Morrison’s _Song of Solomon_ , which was a shame because he really enjoyed reading it.

As soon as the car rolls to a stop in front of Drake Manor, Tim springs from his seat. “Bye! Thank you for driving me, Alfred!”

“Of course. Please do not hesitate to contact me if you need anything,” Alfred replies, smiling softly. “You have been an excellent pupil in the culinary arts, Master Tim.”

“Thanks for teaching me,” Tim responds cheerily. 

“Send me pictures of whatever you make, Timbo,” Jason says, leaning over to wrap Tim in a firm hug. “Your parents are gonna love it.”

“I will!”

Jason releases Tim and ruffles his hair, grinning. Tim grins back and waves at both of them as he trots up to the front door of Drake Manor. Alfred doesn’t drive away until Tim closes the front door behind him.

Tim sets his backpack and shoes down by the front door and plants his hands on his hips as he surveys the living room. It’s empty now, but his parents will be back soon! Buzzing with excitement, he pulls his homework out of his backpack and practically skips over to the couch. He should get some work done before he starts cooking dinner.

At five o’clock sharp, Tim starts preheating the oven. By the time that it beeps to signal that it’s done preheating, he’s finished crushing garlic for the salmon. Tim slides a baking sheet laden with asparagus and salmon into the oven and sets a timer.

Oh, he should let his parents know that he’s making dinner.

**Chat: Mom, Dad, and 1 other person**

Tim [10/25, 5:21 PM]: I’m making dinner to celebrate you coming home!

They don’t reply, but that’s fine. Their flight probably hasn’t landed yet or something. Tim shrugs it off and starts cleaning the kitchen. After all, there’s no sense in letting his parents come home to a messy house. When the kitchen is sparkling, he settles onto the couch to review his history notes.

Some time later, the timer on Tim’s phone beeps. He springs up from the couch and peers through the oven door to check on the salmon. There’s some nice color on it, but it doesn’t look overdone. Perfect! Tim pulls on some oven mitts before carefully removing it from the oven. Taking things out of the oven still makes him nervous, but Alfred let him practice it enough at Wayne Manor that he feels okay doing it on his own.

He sets the baking sheet down on the top of the stove to let it cool. It smells delicious. Smiling, Tim hurries to set the table. His parents could come home any minute now! He sits back down on the couch to do more homework while he waits, but it’s hard to concentrate when he’s so excited.

Seven o’clock rolls around and Tim frowns at the salmon and asparagus, now transferred to nice serving dishes. It’s still warm, but it’ll go cold before long. He’ll leave it out for just a while longer-- his parents will be home any minute, he’s sure.

At eight o’clock, Tim transfers everything into tupperware and stores it in the fridge. They’ll have to reheat it when his parents get home, but it’ll still be good. His stomach rumbles, but it would be rude to eat before his parents get home. He’ll have to find a way to keep himself busy until they’re here, so Tim opens his copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_. Technically, he doesn’t need to read it until next week, but there’s no harm in getting a head start.

It’s almost ten o’clock at night when the front door finally opens. Tim bounds over as best as he can while wearing the orthopedic walking boot. His dad is the first to walk through the door, pulling a large rolling suitcase along.

“Dad!” Tim exclaims. He’s smiling so wide that his face hurts.

Jack yawns and gives Tim a one-armed hug. “Hi, son,” he says, giving Tim’s back a firm pat before releasing him. Face twisting in confusion, Jack sniffs the air. “Why does the house smell weird?”

“I cooked salmon for you guys as a welcome home dinner. It’s in the fridge, but I can quickly reheat it for you.”

“We already ate, Timmy. Sorry. Maybe we can have it tomorrow.” His dad smiles apologetically at him and shuffles further into the house. “Why don’t you go help your mother with our luggage?”

Tim nods and slips out the front door. He finds his mom is unloading suitcases from the trunk of their Mercedes. As always, her dark hair falls down to her shoulders in glossy waves.

Janet turns, smiling at Tim as he picks up two suitcases. “Hi, darling,” she greets him, wrapping him in a hug. He has to drop the handles of both suitcases to hug her back, but she quickly breaks the hug to catch the suitcases.

“Be careful with those,” she scolds as she rights them. “They have two century old wood carvings in them.”

“Sorry,” Tim says immediately.

Her face softens. “It’s all right, Timmy. We packed everything very carefully, so I’m sure that they’re all right.”

“I’ll be careful,” Tim promises as he takes the handles of both suitcases with considerably more caution than before. “How was your trip?”

“Oh, it was nice. It’s getting late so I’ll tell you about it tomorrow, okay?” Janet slings a duffel bag over her shoulder and rolls a large wheeled suitcase into the house. Tim follows her and sets his suitcases down in the slowly-growing pile at the bottom of the stairs.

Jack emerges from their office and takes one of the suitcases from the pile. “Did you finish your homework for today?” he asks as he rolls the suitcase into their office.

“I did. I even had time to start reading _To Kill a Mockingbird_ for next week,” Tim confirms.

“Good, good,” Jack replies from within the office. He steps back outside and continues, “Since you’ve finished your homework, could you bring the rest of our luggage into the house? We’re both tired and would like to go to bed.”

Tim nods understandingly. “Of course. Should I put them here with the rest?” He gestures at the small pile of luggage.

His father shrugs. “Sure. We can figure it out tomorrow.”

“Okay. I’ll go do that, then.” Tim heads back to the front door as his parents ascend the stairs.

Hand hovering over the doorknob of the front door, he hears one door click shut. He waits for a moment, but there’s no other sound. One door closing means that they’re sleeping in the same bedroom. Good; they’re probably not fighting right now. Smiling, Tim slips outside and starts hauling luggage inside.

Before he goes to bed, he makes sure to clear the table and load all of the dirty cooking dishes into the dishwasher. Tim grabs his backpack before he goes upstairs-- he doesn’t want to leave a mess in the living room, after all-- and heads up stairs.

He pauses for a moment, listening to the soft snores coming from behind his parents’ bedroom door, before he ducks into his room. It’s nice to hear the house sound alive for once.

* * *

The house is quiet when Tim wakes up the next morning. His parents are probably at work. Tim eats breakfast and packs himself a sandwich and apple for lunch. (Alfred has given him multiple lectures on the importance of fresh fruit and vegetables; Tim would hate to disappoint him.)

He bikes to school for the first time in weeks, relishing the feeling of the cool October air on his skin. His ankle isn’t healed enough for him to run around Gotham like he usually does, so this will have to do until then.

* * *

When Tim comes home from school, his dad is pacing around the kitchen with his phone pressed to his ear.

“No, that’s not that I’m saying. What I’m saying is that we can take advantage of the lull and monetize this new market,” Jack says harshly. He glances at Tim as he scurries past but is quickly distracted by his call again. “I don’t care about that. The bottom line is--”

His words follow Tim up the stairs, but Tim’s bedroom door adequately muffles the conversation. With a sigh, Tim drops his backpack next to his desk and flops down on his bed. His dad doesn’t sound like he’s in a Bad Mood, capitalization included, but Tim should make sure that he’s done some homework just in case his dad decides to check on him.

He pulls out his copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_. If he finishes it this weekend, then he can always reread it next week. It’ll help his understanding of the material, or something like that.

* * *

At six-thirty, Janet sweeps through the front door, arms laden with takeout bags. “I bought us dinner from that Thai place you like,” she says, smiling.

It’s been years since Tim has eaten there, but he remembers their food being pretty good. “Thank you, Mom!” he chirps as he hobbles over to the cabinets to gather dishes to set the table with. Tim had hoped that they would be able to postpone last night’s dinner to today, but he doesn’t want to let the food his mother brought go to waste.

Janet sets the bags down on the kitchen counter and frowns, her eyes going straight to Tim’s walking boot. “What’s that on your foot, Tim?”

“It’s a walking boot. I was allowed to stop using crutches a few days ago, but the boot is to protect my ankle until it fully heals,” he explains as he grabs plates and utensils.

She nods absently, still frowning. “Right, you sprained your ankle. We must have been too tired yesterday to notice the boot.”

“It’s okay. I know that traveling takes a lot out of you.” He starts arranging plates on the table.

“Forks go on the left,” Jack reminds him, glancing up from his phone.

“Oh, right. Thanks, Dad.” Tim shifts the forks to their proper place.

Dinner is a relatively calm affair. His parents chat about potentially expanding Drake Industries’ research and development department and speculate about stocks. Tim doesn’t care much for stocks, but he’s mostly happy to be included. He eats in relative silence and listens to his parents discuss the Dow Jones.

“May I be excused?” he asks during a lull in the conversation.

“Yes, as long as you clean up after yourself,” his dad replies.

Tim nods and makes sure to put his plate and dirty utensils in the dishwasher before he retreats to his room. He’s been making headway on some Jeffrey Anderson articles. If he keeps this up, he’ll have a nice stockpile of articles to publish once he’s able to resume his nightly visits to Gotham. He’ll be able to focus more on his work as Gotham’s Shadow without worrying about writing more articles.

He settles down on his bed and opens his laptop. Time to write.

* * *

The next few days are relatively peaceful. That weekend, Tim buckles down and focuses on getting ahead in his schoolwork. It’s the middle of the semester and teachers are increasing the level of difficulty of their assignments and tests. If Tim isn’t careful, his grades could slip.

His parents leave Tim to do his work in relative peace. Their conversations are surprisingly warm and civil, and Tim isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. It’s much easier to concentrate on his homework when they aren’t shouting at each other, after all.

At the end of his algebra class on Tuesday, his teacher passes out the tests that they took last week. Tim looks at the face-down paper on his desk, heart racing, before he steels himself and flips it over.

A bright red _82_ stares back at him.

Eighty-two? His stomach does somersaults. It feels like something is squeezing his heart and filling his chest with lava. His skin is buzzing. Eighty-two is a B minus, not even a B.

The paper shakes in his hands, so Tim quickly stows it in his backpack before anyone can see his grade. Dizzy, he waits for his teacher to dismiss the class before he calmly walks to the bathroom and vomits into a toilet. He can faintly hear the muffled stampede as students rush to their various buses and chauffeurs.

Tim kneels on the cold tile floor and tries to control his breathing as he waits for the rush of students to die down. When it sounds like the main wave of students has left, he stands up, flushes the toilet, and washes his hands.

He stares at his face in the bathroom mirror. His hooded blue eyes and black hair are the same as his mother’s, as are his broad cheekbones and soft nose. His eyebrows and tendency to burn rather spectacularly in the sun, though, are all from his father. Right now, his face is sweaty and even paler than usual. Tim sighs and splashes water on his face before swishing water in his mouth to get rid of the taste of bile.

Maybe he can hide the test from his parents. Maybe they don’t know. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

He repeats the words over and over to himself as he bikes home. They don’t have to know about the test. He can hide it somewhere or lie or throw it out or burn it. It’ll be fine.

Tim stows his bike away in the garage before walking through the front door of Drake Manor. His parents are sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for him.

“Tim,” his mother says, cool and controlled.

He freezes, heart pounding in his ears. “Is something wrong?”

“Come sit down,” she replies.

Numbly, he drops his backpack next to the front door and walks over. “What is it?” he asks as he takes a seat across from his mother and next to his father.

Jack slides a piece of paper across the table to him. It’s a print-out of his online grade report. This one is from his algebra class and displays the grade he received for each assignment. The most row containing the recent test is highlighted in glaring yellow.

“Notice anything?” his father asks mildly, eyes hard. He’s angry, Tim can tell. His shoulders are tense and he’s practically vibrating with it.

“I got an eighty-two on my algebra test,” Tim mumbles. His tongue feels too big and clumsy for his mouth.

“What was that?” Jack growls, leaning forward. “Repeat yourself. Louder, this time.”

“I got an eighty-two on my algebra test,” he repeats.

Janet watches him, eyes cool. “Tim,” she begins, “Do you know where these sorts of grades will get you?”

Tim swallows. “Not into the CEO’s office.”

She nods. “Exactly. These grades are unacceptable. You must not forget that your classmates will be your competition in the future. Everything-- your grades, comportment, _everything_ \-- can be used against you. We’re trying to prepare you for your future. If you continue like this, you’ll be a laughingstock. Build your armor now before you can be attacked for it later.” Seemingly done for now, Janet leans back in her chair.

“Right.” Tim nods. “Of course. I’m-- I’m sorry.”

“Your mother is right. And did you ever stop and think about how this will reflect on us?” Jack reaches out and slams his hand down on the highlighted _82._ Tim flinches at the sound. The cursed number glares at Tim, yellow and garish, from the page. “You’re a Drake, Tim. What happens if, say, LexCorp finds out about this? They’re going to think that the future CEO of Drake Industries is weak and useless, and _that_ will be like blood in the water.”

Absently, Tim notices moisture gathering in his eyes. He blinks, willing it away. “I’ll try harder next time. I’ll do better, I promise.”

Jack leans forward in his chair. “You’d better. Because you know what these grades are going to do for you? They’re going to--”

* * *

At least forty-five minutes go by before Jack runs out of steam. Janet mostly nods along when she agrees with one of his points. Tim largely stays silent except to apologize.

Finally, he’s dismissed. Tim grabs his backpack and heads up to his room as quickly as he can with his foot still in the walking boot. The sound of his door closing behind him is a welcome relief. Tim lets his head drop for just a moment as he wills away a sob. Chest tight, he drags himself over to his desk and takes a seat. It would be best to avoid any more poor grades this week, so he opens up his algebra notes and starts studying where he went wrong.

* * *

Dinner that evening is a quiet but tense affair. His mother glares at his father throughout most of it, though Tim doesn’t know what he did this time. Maybe they’re still angry about the algebra test? His father, too, is tense and jabs his fork angrily into the pasta that Mrs. Mac had left for them. It clinks against the plate; Tim flinches and quickly looks down at his own food.

“Tim, can you ask your father if I may be excused?” Janet asks icily. “Since apparently I need permission for everything.”

“Dad--” Tim begins cautiously, reluctant to get caught in the middle of another one of their arguments.

Without looking up from his food, Jack shoots back, “Please tell your mother that she can go if she stops nagging me about last month’s R and D expenditure reports.”

Janet stands up. “Kindly inform your father that I’ll stop nagging him when he actually takes responsibility for his own company.” With that, she stalks towards the home office.

“Tell your mother that it would be easier to run my damn company if she would stop sticking her nose into everything and questioning all of my decisions!” Jack shouts at Janet’s retreating back. She slams the office door behind her.

Tim pushes his food around on his plate, but he isn’t very hungry. For appearances’ sake, he eats as much as he can stomach before he asks, “May I please be excused?”

“Fine,” Jack replies tersely, throwing his napkin down on the table.

It looks like his father is in the mood for a fight, so Tim quickly clears his place before scurrying up to his room. Luckily, the argument doesn’t start until he’s seated at his desk. He can hear the squeak of the office door as it opens and the click of his mothers’ heels on the marble floors. His bedroom door muffles his parents’ voices enough that he can’t discern what they’re saying, but his father’s angry tone and his mother’s sharp retorts are clear enough.

Tim focuses on his homework and tries to wait out the fight. Finally, someone-- Tim suspects that it’s his mother-- shouts something and there’s a loud clang downstairs. It doesn’t sound like something shattered, so he doubts that anything is broken. Good, that will make for less of a mess to clean up tomorrow.

Someone goes up the stairs and Tim recognizes his mother’s footsteps. They’re louder than usual; she must be angry. His guess is confirmed when she stalks down the hall and the door to his mother’s bedroom slams shut.

So they’re back to sleeping in separate bedrooms, then.

Algebraic equations blur as Tim’s eyes go unfocused. He hopes that the argument wasn’t over him. He’ll have to try harder next time if he wants them to stop fighting.

* * *

The next day is Halloween. How did time sneak up on Tim like this? At least his ankle has almost fully healed. He’s had no trouble walking on it for the past week or two, but he keeps wearing the orthopedic walking boot. Bruce had insisted that Tim should keep wearing the walking boot and be careful not to reinjure his foot. His ankle has kept him away from his work as Gotham’s Shadow for long enough and Tim would like to avoid being benched for even longer, so he’s followed Bruce’s advice.

Tonight, though, is Halloween. Every Gothamite knows that nothing good happens on Halloween, which is precisely why tonight is a good time for Gotham’s Shadow to reappear. There’s sure to be some sort of mischief going on that Commissioner Gordon will want to know about.

There wasn’t any yelling in the Drake household tonight. Instead, the doors to their separate bedrooms are passive aggressively slammed shut. Tim suspects that Janet is giving Jack the cold shoulder for some mysterious infraction.

He waits forty-five minutes for his parents to fall asleep before quietly changing into his usual dark hoodie and pants. The bulky walking boot is exchanged for a lighter and more maneuverable ankle brace. His night backpack is ready to go and his DSLR camera has a new SD card so it’ll have plenty of memory space for new photos.

For the first time in days, Tim’s chest buzzes pleasantly with adrenaline and he can’t stop smiling. He tiptoes out of the house, quietly shutting the front door behind him before he takes off down his usual route to Gotham.

It’s been a while since he’s been able to work out, so he’s thoroughly winded by the time that he reaches the edge of the city. Tim allows himself a few minutes to drink some water as he recuperates on a rooftop.

He’s missed this. The harsh yellow street lamps, the cool concrete rooftops, the lights in building windows that wink in the distance like stars. Tim breathes in the familiar smell of metal, cigarette smoke, and wet trash. It’s disgusting, but that’s Gotham for you. The cold stone under his feet feels like home.

Tim contemplates his next steps. Halloween is Scarecrow’s favorite holiday and he’s more likely to strike crowded areas. Consequently, the Bats will certainly be patrolling the city’s more well-populated areas. Will it be helpful if he stays in the fringes of those areas or should he stake out somewhere completely different?

It’s best if he stays near where the Bats will be, he decides. After all, it’s his first night back and the chances of Scarecrow attacking are too high for him to risk going somewhere else.

If he was Scarecrow, where would he attack? There are hordes of trick-or-treaters out tonight… somewhere in Midtown would be a good target. It’s a central location and forcing people to scatter out of Midtown would certainly cause a ruckus. The East End or upper Gotham Proper seem like probable targets: the East End will have plenty of trick-or-treaters running about and Gotham General is in Gotham Proper. Attacking a hospital would certainly inspire fear, plus there are plenty of schools in that district.

To spare his ankle, Tim ends up taking the bus to upper Gotham Proper. He keeps his tiny canister of pepper spray in his sleeve, but nobody pays him any mind. Tim hops off the bus and makes his way onto the roof of Gotham Central high school. From here, he can see a few East End streets and he has a good view of the area around Gotham Central.

Tim connects his phone to his usual VPN and checks his Gotham’s Shadow email. No new emails from Commissioner Gordon, but there’s no harm in leaving a blank email to the Commissioner open just in case something urgent comes up.

Pleased, he settles in to wait. Clusters of trick-or-treaters walk by the school, but Tim’s vantage point is well-hidden from passersby. 

At nine-thirty, screams echo in the distance. Tim stills, camera in hand. They could be normal Gotham screams, or--

The screams increase in volume and grow more frantic. Oh no. They’re coming from somewhere in the East End. Tim frowns-- he can’t see anything from here. Only after he moves a few rooftops closer to the origin of the screams does he finally see something.

Costumed children and teenagers sprint through the streets below. They don’t seem to be running away from one main location-- maybe Scarecrow attacked multiple locations? Tim frowns and zooms his camera out to get a better idea of where they’re running away from. He snaps a few photos, but he needs more information.

From his perch on the roof of an apartment building, he can’t see any billowing clouds of Scarecrow’s trademark fear gas. All he can see are the trick-or-treaters dropping their candy on the ground as they flee. They dump their treats, tossing their pillowcases and plastic jack-o-lanterns aside as they run. It’s almost as if--

Oh.

Oh no.

Scarecrow must have somehow infected the candy with fear gas.

Tim’s stomach lurches. He glances around, looking for any visible clouds of fear gas and finding none. Maybe it’s being deployed in smaller quantities or it only activates upon ingestion?

Pulling out his phone, he checks that his phone is still using his VPN and quickly types an email to Commissioner Gordon.

* * *

To: James Gordon <jgordon@gcpd.gov>

From: Gotham’s Shadow <shadow@gothamphotography.com>

_October 31st, 9:39 PM (just now)_

Subject: [URGENT] Scarecrow

There’s screaming coming from somewhere in the East End. I suspect Scarecrow. Kids are dumping candy-- check for fear gas? No visible columns of fear gas-- it’s either in the candy itself or its deployment is short-range.

GS

* * *

Tim tucks his phone into his backpack and checks his camera. If he zooms in on distant locations with his camera, then it’s almost better than a pair of binoculars. He turns slowly, swiveling his camera and peering into distant streets. There-- a small cloud of fear gas next to an apartment building. It’s so small that he nearly misses it, but one of the many reasons why he loves his camera is its excellent zoom resolution.

He takes a few pictures and waits for the fear gas to dissipate. When it does, something tiny and shiny lays on the ground in its wake. A piece of candy. He snaps another few pictures and tries to zoom in more, but the image is as zoomed in as he can get it. Tim doesn’t recognize the wrapper-- maybe Scarecrow made his own candy?

Commissioner Gordon will want to know about this. He types out another email and hurriedly scans over it for typos before hitting send.

* * *

To: James Gordon <jgordon@gcpd.gov>

From: Gotham’s Shadow <shadow@gothamphotography.com>

_October 31st, 9:43 PM (just now)_

Subject: Re: [URGENT] Scarecrow

I saw fear gas coming from a piece of candy lying on the ground between K St and 32nd St. One possibility: candy supply infected with fear gas?

GS

* * *

The disjointed screaming continues, but Tim just grits his teeth and holds his camera tighter. He snaps pictures of a few more small clouds of fear gas in the distance and keeps an eye on the fleeing trick-or-treaters, but there’s not much else that he can do. Scarecrow is a little out of his league-- what’s Tim going to do, throw his camera at him? No thank you.

Tim monitors the situation from his rooftop. He’s no stranger to waiting on a cold roof, huddling against the concrete to avoid Gotham’s harsh wind. At least, his phone buzzes with an email notification.

* * *

To: Gotham’s Shadow <shadow@gothamphotography.com>

From: James Gordon <jgordon@gcpd.gov>

_October 31st, 11:02 PM (just now)_

Subject: Re: [URGENT] Scarecrow

Scarecrow has been apprehended. It looks like he wrapped canisters of fear gas with wrappers and tried to pass them off as candy. Batman and Robin are tracking down the remaining canisters.

Thanks for the heads up. I’m glad that you’re back in town.

Best,

Jim Gordon

* * *

It sounds like Tim’s work is done, at least for tonight. The Bats are better equipped to hunt down the fear candy than he is, anyhow. The next time that Tim goes out on the town, maybe he can try to track down where Scarecrow made the candy.

Satisfied, Tim takes the rooftops home. He’d rather not risk taking public transportation right now-- fear gas and confined spaces don’t mix well.

He slips in through Drake Manor’s front door and sneaks up the stairs and into his room. The house is silent save for the quiet snores coming from his dad’s bedroom.

Tim makes sure to hide his night backpack and change into pajamas-- he’d rather not risk being sloppy and getting caught. His bed is delightfully comfortable and he falls asleep quickly, tired from a good night’s work.

* * *

“I can’t believe the kind of nutcases in this city,” Jack says at breakfast the next morning. He gestures at the newspaper sitting in front of him and shakes his head. “It’s ridiculous. You’d think that Arkham would discipline the crazy out of them, but I guess not. They must be getting soft.”

Tim puts his now-empty cereal bowl in the dishwasher. “I’m going to head out. Don’t want to be late for school and all that.”

Sipping on her coffee, Janet barely glances up from her phone. Jack keeps talking animatedly, even as Tim grabs his bike helmet and slips out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would a chapter really be complete without me thanking my phenomenal beta reader, [S](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolateandsilver)? They're beauty, they're grace, and I really like their face. 
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely comments!! Reading your wonderful comments and seeing you get excited with me is one of the reasons why I continue to write. I really appreciate your support and I love you all!!!! <3 <3 <3


	9. that old recurring dream where you're drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Waynes' attempts to organize a movie night are interrupted. Tim has a bad week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Black Eyes by David Wirsig. 
> 
> ATTENTION: Tim’s parents are terrible and shit really hits the fan with them in this chapter. I tried to make sure that my content warnings covered all of the bases. However, if you think that this chapter needs more CWs, feel free to let me know in a comment or in an ask on tumblr. (I should have anonymous asks turned on and you can find a link to my tumblrs in the end notes.) Please take care of yourselves!! <3
> 
> **CWs:** dissociation, emotional abuse, physical abuse

Jason [11/01, 12:10 PM]: hey want to hang out this week??

Jason [11/01, 12:12 PM]: we can always chill next week too. i know you’re probably trying to spend time with your parents, so let me know what’s up and we can work around your schedule. dick and i haven’t heard from you in a while and i think he’s starting to get mopey.

Jason [11/01, 12:12 PM]: btw dick is coming back on friday night. he offered to sneak takeout past alfred and bruce so we can have a movie night or something.

* * *

Tim [11/01, 2:58 PM]: I might be able to come over on Saturday or Sunday, but I’ll need to check with my parents first.

Jason [11/01, 2:59 PM]: no problem!!! lmk what they say?

Jason [11/01, 3:00 PM]: are you coming to book club today?

* * *

Tim stays behind in his math class to ask his algebra teacher for more practice problems. He runs to the library for his usual Thursday book club meeting, but he ends up three minutes late anyways. Hopefully they haven’t started discussing this week’s book.

Skidding into the library, Tim finds the club members chatting amongst themselves. Good-- the discussion hasn’t started yet. He sits down next to Jason and pulls his copy of _The Graveyard Book_ by Neil Gaiman out of his backpack.

“Hey, it’s good to see that you made it.,” Jason says in greeting. “What’s up?”

Tim shrugs and brushes his hair out of his face. It’s getting long-- he should get a haircut soon. “Not much. Sorry I was late, I had to talk to my teacher.”

“No problem. We never start on time anyways, so I wouldn’t even call you late.” Jason nudges him with an elbow. “But really, what’s up?”

The bright, glaring _82_ on his algebra test flashes through Tim’s head, but he forces a smile. “Oh, you know. Homework and hanging out with my parents. How have you been doing? I don’t think I’ve seen you since last week, what with you being out on Monday and all.”

Now it’s Jason’s turn to shrug. “I caught some sort of bug, so I stayed home on Monday and Tuesday. I think it must’ve been a virus or something because it was really quick and I’m feeling way better now.”

Tim is pretty sure that he read something in the news about Batman and a few members of the Justice League fighting some killer robots in Star City earlier this week. And where Batman goes, so does Robin. At least Jason doesn’t look injured, so it seems more likely that his absences were due to him simply not being in Gotham rather than him suffering some terrible wound.

“Oh, that sucks. I’m glad that you’re feeling better.”

“Yeah, me too. It’s good to be back, though. I was getting bored all cooped up at home with B and Alfred,” Jason says easily as he leans back in his chair. “That reminds me-- how are things with your parents? Have you asked them if you could come over this weekend yet?”

Tim stares quizzically at Jason. “No, not yet. They haven’t gotten home yet.”

Jason tilts his head. “Your parents don’t text?”

It’s an innocuous enough question, but something about it feels weird. Tim shrugs. “I like asking them about that sort of stuff face to face.”

For a moment, Jason watches him carefully before shrugging. “To each their own. But seriously, let me know how it goes? And let me know if you have any ideas for the movie lineup. If Dick gets his way, then we’ll have to sit through High School Musical on repeat. Like sure, it’s good, but not good enough to listen to it three times in one sitting.”

“I’ll let you know what they say,” Tim promises.

Jason gives him a thumbs up right as Ashley, the blonde senior who runs the book club, walks through the library doors. “Hi everyone! Sorry I’m late. Let’s get started, shall we?”

* * *

“Want a ride back home? Alfred can drive you,” Jason offers as they head out of the library.

Tim smiles apologetically. “No thank you. I biked to school, actually, so I’m fine with biking home. I don’t want to leave my bike here overnight and all that.”

“All right, if you’re sure,” Jason replies, sounding a little unsure. “Is your ankle still bothering you?”

“Nope! It’s been fine for a while now. I switched out the walking boot for an ankle brace earlier this week and it’s been going well so far.”

He nods contemplatively. “Good. And you’ve been doing the stretches that Dick showed you, right?”

“Yes, _Mom_ ,” Tim says, rolling his eyes.

Jason has the good grace to look slightly ashamed, but only slightly. “Sorry for mother henning you. We miss you over at the manor, Timbo.”

Tim shrugs and stares at the ground. “Hopefully my parents will let me visit you guys this weekend.”

“I hope so too.”

They reach the bike rack and Tim pauses. For a moment, Jason keeps walking before he realizes that Tim isn’t by his side anymore. Tim is good at disappearing like that; he has lots of practice.

“I’ll see you later, Jay,” Tim says as he picks up his helmet.

Jason smiles a little sadly. “See you, Timberland.”

He fastens his helmet’s chin strap as he watches Jason walk over to the line of cars in the pick-up area. If he’s lucky, maybe his parents will be in a good mood and say yes .

When Tim gets home, the house is quiet. Maybe his parents are still at work? Or they could be in their home office, but they could be doing important work. It’s not worth it to potentially disturb them just so he could ask about visiting Wayne Manor this weekend-- they’d definitely say no if he interrupted them and they’d be pretty mad too.

Instead, Tim slinks up to his room and plops down in his desk chair. He might as well finish his homework now so he can use it as a bargaining chip when he asks his parents later.

He’s just finished the extra practice problems for his algebra class when the front door slams loudly enough that he can hear it through his bedroom door. Uh oh, that doesn’t bode well.

“We’re having dinner, come downstairs!” Janet shouts, presumably from the base of the stairs.

Tim sets down his algebra problems and hurries down the stairs-- there’s no sense in dilly dallying when his parents are in a mood. His parents are still in their work clothes and staring each other down in the kitchen.

“Set the table,” Jack orders without breaking eyes with Janet.

“What should I set it for?” Tim asks. “Do we need spoons, or--”

“I don’t care, just set the goddamn table!” His father snaps.

“Right, sorry.” Tim quickly carries a stack of plates and utensils over to the table. The sound of silverware clanging is loud in the otherwise quiet house. He doesn’t dare to risk glancing at his parents; at times like this, it’s best to avoid catching their eye.

His father places a brown paper bag on the table and starts removing plastic tubs of Italian food. Wordlessly, he sets them down in the center of the table before taking his usual seat at the head of the table. Tim sits next to him and Janet sits across from Tim.

Dinner is uncomfortable, to say the least.

“Tim, could you please ask your father to pass the marinara sauce?” Janet asks mildly.

Jack hands the marinara sauce to Tim instead of passing it to Janet. “Tim, tell your mother to stop being so demanding.”

“If you could tell your father to stop being so immature, I would greatly appreciate it.”

“Kindly remind your mother that I’m not the one who started this stupid game of telephone.”

Janet spears a meatball with her fork. “Please inform your dear father that I’m not the one who decided to play idiotic mind games with the board of directors.”

Jack’s hand slams down on the table and Tim jumps, startled. “I know what I’m _doing_ , Janet,” he snaps.

She frowns and tilts her head, purposefully looking at Tim instead of Jack. “Tim, darling, did you hear something?”

“Um,” Tim says. “May I be excused?” He’d rather not get involved in another one of his parents’ fights.

Janet sighs and waves him off. Tim clears his place before scurrying up the stairs as quickly as he can.

“Timothy,” his mother calls after him. Tim freezes mid-step like a deer in headlights; she never uses his full name unless she’s mad. “Why don’t you do your homework downstairs where we can keep an eye on you?”

He looks over his shoulder and finds his mother staring pointedly at him from her seat at the table.

“Okay, sure. Let me go get my stuff,” Tim replies before scampering up the rest of the stairs, heart pounding. What do they want with him? Did he do something wrong? Or maybe this is about the algebra test again. He should’ve studied harder for it.

His hands shake as he shoves his algebra homework into his backpack, but he leaves his laptop out since he doesn’t have any essays to work on. Shouldering his backpack, Tim heads back down the stairs.

Walking over to the kitchen table feels like he’s walking to his doom. Tim sets his backpack down next to his usual chair and sets his algebra practice problems in front of him. He sets his phone face down on the table too so he can double check his answers. Grabbing a pencil from his bag, he resumes working where he left off before dinner.

Janet sighs wordlessly and walks off. A minute later, she emerges from her office with a book. Without looking at Tim or Jack, she takes a seat on the couch and flips her book open. Tim glances up at her, determines that she seems unlikely to bother him, and returns to his work.

His phone buzzes on the table. Tim ignores it, focusing on his practice problems, but it buzzes again. And again. Who’s texting him? Tim picks it up and finds multiple unread messages. There are a few from Jason that were sent while Tim was at dinner.

Jason [11/01, 6:15 PM]: hey did you ask your parents yet?

Jason [11/01, 6:16 PM]: dick is trying to figure out what to do for takeout. he’s trying to get bruce in on it too so he can run interference with alfred for us.

Surprisingly, his new texts are from Bruce Wayne himself.

Bruce [11/01, 6:47 PM]: Hi, Tim. I’m acquiring junk food at the grocery store for our secret stash. Do you have any requests?

Bruce [11/01, 6:47 PM]: Jason let me know about your potential plans this weekend. I’m also gathering supplies for a proper movie marathon.

Bruce [11/01, 6:48 PM]: You’re by no means obligated to visit the manor this weekend, but the boys would like it if you came.

“Tim, put your phone down. We need to talk,” his father says.

Bruce [11/01, 6:48 PM]: Our door is always open to you.

Bruce [11/01, 6:49 PM]: If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to call.

“Hang on, Bruce is texting me,” Tim mumbles, frowning at his phone.

“ _Son,_ ” his father growls, reaching for his phone. “We need to talk. Give me the phone.”

“What? No!” Frowning, Tim tries to twist away from his father’s grasping hands.

Jack looks _pissed_. Oh, Tim is so fucked. “I said to give me the damn phone!”

He grabs Tim’s upper arm and yanks him towards the head of the table. Tim hisses as his ribs collide with the edge of the table. Shock loosens his grip on his phone and Jack pries it out of his hand.

Before Tim can snatch his phone back, Jack stands up and glowers at him. “I’m trying to talk to you like an _adult_ and all you do is _ignore_ me and look at your damn phone!” he snaps.

“Dad…” Tim whispers. He can feel his heart pumping and his face is way too warm. His entire body is too warm, like he’s burning from within.

Jack turns and storms towards his office. Tim scrambles after him, unable to get his jaw to work properly. He freezes in the doorway as his father heads straight for his excavation kit and pulls out a hammer.

“How do you like this?” Jack snarls, raising the hammer. The screen is the first thing to shatter, but his dad keeps going. “You’re grounded _and_ I’m taking away your phone privileges.”

Each strike of the hammer feels like a physical blow. His entire body is rushing, sinking, burning. He’s frozen in place, an unwilling witness as, piece by piece, his phone fractures into pieces.

When Jack finishes, he’s smiling triumphantly. Tim feels hollow, like someone scooped out his insides. Absently, he wonders if he would ring like a bell if someone hit him with a hammer.

“I won’t be dissed in my own house, son,” Jack says. His words sound very far away.

Tim nods. It’s all he can do. The rest of him is still frozen in place as he stares at the remains of his phone.

“Go finish your homework,” his father orders.

“Yes, Dad,” Tim says numbly.

Somehow, the command is enough to force his unwilling limbs to march back to the dining table. His body takes a seat, but Tim’s mind is still somewhere else, drifting. He feels unmoored. Everything is muffled like there’s a fine layer of snow between him and the world. It feels like he’s looking from the inside of a fishbowl, all smooth, impenetrable glass.

Tim stares at his homework until, mechanically, he picks up a pencil. He absently solves each equation, barely comprehending the numbers in front of him. Apparently it’s enough for his father, who doesn’t reemerge from the office.

Eventually, Jack stalks out of the office and up the stairs. Janet follows suit twenty minutes later, taking her book with her. She turns off the living room lights, leaving only the soft backlighting of the kitchen. Tim stays at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the numbers in the dim light, until his eyes begin to drift shut against his will. Only then does he finally peel himself from his seat, gather his papers, and numbly head upstairs.

The numbness echoes in him until he falls asleep. Even then, it sinks its claws into the fringes of his dreams, turning them gray and murky.

He dreams of sitting on a cool concrete rooftop, its cold permeating his entire body. He dreams of panicked trick-o-treaters running through the streets below as he sits on a rooftop, hidden and forgotten. He dreams of flickers of capes passing him by, of the hiss of grappling guns and delighted laughter fading into the distance.

* * *

When he wakes in the morning, he still feels off. This time, he feels less like he’s controlling his body from inside a fishbowl and more like… feeling nothing at all. An all-encompassing numbness hugs his chest and nestles somewhere in the space between his ribs. Tim breathes deeply with one hand pressed to his heart. It’s still beating, but its pulse is faint.

He forces himself through his morning routine and his classes are more mind-numbing than usual. Tim shuffles into his usual corner of the library, hidden from the prying eyes of the librarians, and settles into a chair. It feels like he should do something, but what? He doesn’t feel like reading.

Tim ends up staring at the wall, mind blank, until something moves in a blur in front of him. He starts, flinching away from the motion and curling up. He stays like that, dark and safe, for a few seconds until he registers that someone is murmuring soothingly to him.

“Hey, it’s all right. It’s just Jason,” Jason whispers softly from somewhere nearby. “You’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you, okay?”

Slowly, Tim lifts his head up from where he’s pressed against his knees. “Hey,” he says, voice cracking. “Sorry. I’m fine.”

Jason wordlessly spreads his arms, a silent question. Tim leans forward until he can press his face into Jason’s shoulder as the other boy wraps him in a hug. 

“Shhhh, it’s okay. You’re okay,” Jason murmurs as he rubs Tim’s back.

A few heartbeats pass and Tim finally pulls away. Jason stands up and takes the seat next to Tim. “Feeling better?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Tim says hoarsely. “Sorry. I-- didn’t sleep well. Nightmares.” It’s a bad lie and he knows it.

“Are you okay?” Jason asks, brow furrowed. “I just-- you didn’t respond to any of our texts last night. Bruce and I were getting worried.”

Tim shrugs half-heartedly. “Broke my phone.”

“Oh,” Jason says. “That sucks. When are you getting a new one?”

He shrugs again and picks at his nails.

“Hmmm.” For a moment, Jason is quiet. Then he leans over to pull his lunch out of his backpack. “You know, even if your parents don’t let you come hang out this weekend, the movie marathon thing is a standing offer. We can always do it after they leave again.”

Tim hums. “I guess,” he says. He watches as Jason digs out one of Alfred’s sandwiches. With a start, Tim realizes that he forgot to pack himself a lunch. Fuck.

Jason watches him out of the corner of his eye before nonchalantly offering him the other half of his sandwich. “Want some? It’s good.”

Tim hesitates, but Jason shoves the sandwich into his hands. “Take it,” he says. “I have some trail mix and stuff in here too, if you want.”

“Thank you,” Tim says numbly. For a moment, his eyes fill with moisture and he’s forced to blink away the tears before he starts crying in front of Jason over something as stupid as a sandwich.

“Of course. What are friends for?” Jason smiles and lightly knocks his elbow against Tim’s before taking a bite of his half of the sandwich.

* * *

That evening, Tim looks over his latest Jeffrey Anderson article. He only published it a few days ago and hasn’t thought much of it since then, but sometimes he likes to comb through the responses to his articles to see if anyone brought up good points in the comments.

_Superheroes’ Role in the Eradication of Police Corruption_

Jeffrey Anderson, October 29th 20XX

_Vigilantes come into contact with the police more frequently than most civilians. Consequently, they are extremely familiar with the inner workings of police departments and their officers. However, vigilantes are not allowed to testify in cases of police corruption unless they reveal their secret identity._

_How can we fully utilize vigilantes’ insider knowledge to establish some desperately needed independent police oversight? I would like to propose a multi-tiered organization to provide community oversight of local police forces. As part of the community oversight initiative, vigilantes’ status as public figures would allow them to provide valuable insider knowledge--_

He stares at the article’s statistics. _102,649 views_ _. 1,893 comments._ Tim rubs at his eyes and stares some more. Sure, some of his other articles have had their moments of popularity, but nothing as fast or intense as this. Over one-hundred thousand hits in only a few days?

A spark of warmth flares to life in Tim’s chest. If people are reading his articles, then that’s as much as he can ask for. And maybe, maybe, he’ll actually be useful for once and--

There’s a knock on his bedroom door. Tim hastily saves his latest draft for Jeffrey Anderson and shoves his laptop into his backpack. After the incident with his phone, there’s no sense in letting his parents catch him on any electronics.

Without waiting for his reply, the door swings open. “Tim?” his mother asks. Her gaze falls to the algebra notes that Tim had thankfully left on his desk. “Oh, are you still studying?”

“I can take a study break if you need my help with something.”

“I just transferred some of the photos from our last trip onto my computer. Come downstairs and I can show you.”

“These are the photos from Chile and Brazil, right?” Tim smiles and follows her downstairs.

His mother takes a seat on the living room couch and pats the cushion next to her. “Yes, but we also have a few pictures from a detour in Peru.” She grabs her laptop from the coffee table and pulls up a photo album. “Our PR department asked us to send some photos to them for advertisements and the like. I’ll show you the pictures and you can tell me which ones are your favorites.”

Tim nods eagerly and tries not to lean too much into her side. She’ll get annoyed if her blazer gets wrinkled, but he can’t help but savor the feeling of their arms pressed together as she explains the story behind each photo.

“Just after this was taken, a pigeon nearly flew into your father’s head. You should’ve heard him scream,” she chuckles as she points out a picture of the sun rising over the cityscape of Santiago, Chile.

“Are you telling him about the bird?” Jack asks as he walks behind the couch.

Janet turns around, smiling. “It makes for a good story.”

Jack raises an eyebrow.

Her smile turns slightly cooler. Ah, they must still be fighting over something. “I’m going to go check if Audrey sent us last week’s expense reports yet,” she announces. Passing the laptop to Tim, she stands up and strides into her office. The door clicks shut behind her.

Jack turns to Tim. “Did she tell you about the PR department wanting photos?”

“Yeah, she asked for help picking out a few good ones to send over.”

He nods and walks around the couch, taking a seat next to Tim. “Why don’t we go through the rest of the photos together and pick a few good ones?”

Tim nods, smiling. “I’d like that.”

Jack takes the computer and settles it in his own lap. “So, about that pigeon. Its nest must have been nearby or something because it flew straight at my head from behind--”

One by one, they go through the remaining photos. The camera they used to take the photos had excellent resolution, so the images were crisp even if they weren’t professionally done. It turns out that his father has a good eye for photoshoot locations even if the framing of his photos leaves something to be desired.

“See, I like this one,” Tim points at a photo of Janet talking to an archaeologist at a dig site. The afternoon sunshine was buttery and cast rays of gold through the picture. “The lighting is really good and it’s a great action shot of Mom. I think if we crop it a bit, it would look even better.”

“How do you mean?”

“Can I see the-- oh, thank you,” he says as Jack hands him the computer. With a few clicks, Tim crops the photo and adjusts the framing until he’s satisfied. “There. See how it looks more balanced now?”

Jack leans closer, peering at the photo, before nodding. “It does,” he says, awed. “Good eye, Tim. PR will like this one.”

Tim beams. “Thanks, Dad.”

Jack smiles and takes the laptop back. “Well, I think we have enough pictures. I’ll clear them with your mother before we send them. Are you done with your homework?”

Tim nods. “Yeah and I got a head start on next week’s work.”

“Good job. See, you can do well if you just apply yourself.” Jack pats Tim’s shoulder before standing up. “Good night, son.”

“Good night, dad,” Tim replies.

Without looking back, Jack heads into the office and shuts the door behind himself once more.

* * *

The fragile peace lasts until the next afternoon. Tim figures that it’s as good a time as any to ask about visiting Wayne Manor. He hovers near the top of the stairs, watching his dad read the newspaper at the kitchen table. His mom sits at the other end of the table as she scrolls through something on her phone. The coast seems clear-- now seems like a good time to approach him.

Tim descends the stairs and heads over to the kitchen table. “Hey, Dad,” he greets him. “Are you busy right now?”

Jack glances at Tim over his reading glasses. “What is it?”

“Could I maybe visit the Waynes tomorrow?”

From across the table, Janet glances up from her phone but says nothing.

He frowns. “You failed a test this week. I really don’t think--”

“But I’ve studied really hard since then and--”

Jack cuts him off, eyes hard. “Don’t interrupt me. Bad grades mean no going out. That’s a rule, son. You--”

Tim interrupts, clenching his hands into fists. “Come _on_ , Dad, they invited me and everything--”

His father’s hand moves and Tim flinches instinctually before the side of his face flares in pain. It takes him a moment longer to process the harsh sound of skin hitting skin. The slap hurts fiercely. Tim raises a hand to his stinging cheek and stares at his father, eyes watering.

“You need to learn how to follow the rules,” Jack says harshly. “I’m doing this for you, Tim. You’ll thank me someday. I can’t just let you run around when your grades are slipping.” He stands up and Tim takes a step back, eyes burning.

Wisely, he keeps his big mouth shut. His face hurts. He should’ve known that asking about this now would be a bad idea. He should’ve known--

His father turns and marches up the stairs, fuming. Tim watches him, rooted in place.

A hand lands on his shoulder and Tim jumps. “Your father is right, you know,” Janet says calmly. “We’re only trying to help, but you keep sabotaging your grades.”

Tim nods weakly. His cheek is on fire and his face is on fire and his heart is burning. He’s melting.

“Come on, Tim,” she orders, shoving him none-too-gently towards the stairs. Tim stumbles forwards, but he’s having trouble getting his legs to work. All he wants to do is hide in a hole somewhere, preferably for the next twenty years or so.

Frowning, Janet grabs his arm. “I said come _on,_ ” she hisses, fingers digging into his arm. She yanks on his arm until he finally shuffles after her, head bowed.

Janet mercilessly tugs him up the stairs and down the hall to his room, her hand like an iron vise. It might as well be wrapped along his lungs because it feels like he can’t breathe. From inside his room, there’s the sound of crashing. Tim’s heart plummets as Jack steps out, dragging Tim’s television along with him.

“Grab his games,” he orders Janet without looking at Tim. “And don’t forget the camera.”

“What?” Tim asks hoarsely.

“We need to minimize your distractions. Since you’ve been so difficult, this is evidently the only way to get you to actually focus on what’s important,” Jack states before lugging the television into the master bedroom.

Tim stands there, frozen, as Janet walks past with his xbox console and an armful of his games. All of his fiction books come next. A distant part of Tim’s mind wonders what he’ll do about the books that he borrowed from the library. He’s just glad that he never took Bruce up on any of his offers to borrow his old mystery books. They walk more a few more times, various knick knacks in hand. All Tim can do is stand there and try to breathe.

Finally, Jack walks out of Tim’s room, camera in hand. Tim is so, _so_ glad that he’s gotten in the habit of transferring all of his photos to his laptop after a night out. It would be disastrous if his parents found pictures of Batman on his camera. “We’ll be taking this with us tomorrow. You need to buckle down and study, son.”

Janet places a light hand on Tim’s shoulder, right next to where she had gripped his arm like a vise only minutes ago. “Remember, this is for your own good,” she tells him gently. “We want the best for you, but you need to keep your grades up.”

With that, she breezes down the stairs as Jack disappears into the master bedroom. Numbly, Tim stumbles into his own room. It looks like a tornado has ripped it apart. All of his dresser drawers are open; did his parents think that he was hiding something from them? His books, once so neatly organized, now lay jumbled in his bookshelves. All of the drawers of his desk were pulled out, their contents disturbed. At least they seemed to leave his school backpack and his notes alone.

His closet door is open too, but it looks like they spent less time in there. Tim quickly verifies that his night backpack, wedged behind a box in the far corner of his closet, remains undisturbed. He checks his school backpack and finds that his laptop and charger are still safely inside. Good, his parents didn’t take his computer. He’s not sure what he’d do without it.

After the racket of the past few minutes, his room is oddly quiet. Tim shuts the door and takes a moment to try to regulate his breathing. As he stares at the chaotic mess of his room, he should feel… something. Instead, he feels nothing at all.

* * *

That night, he doesn’t venture out into Gotham. Why would he? His camera is trapped in his parents’ bedroom, which is currently only functioning as his father’s bedroom while his mother sleeps in another room down the hall.

Besides, Tim just isn’t feeling it. When he’s in Gotham, he’s closer to the stars than to anything else in his life. Tonight, he’s stuck on the ground, staring up at the insurmountable rooftops like a bird without wings. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the amazing [S](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolateandsilver) and the wonderful [goldkirk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldkirk) for their help with looking over this chapter!! 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and commenting!! It's incredibly motivating and comforting to have all of you cheering me on as I continue to work this story. I love you all-- please take care of yourselves!! <3 <3 <3


	10. crawl back into bed to dream of a time when your heart was open wide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Movie night finally happens, uncomfortable conversations are had, and Tim finally takes a goddamn nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from A Better Son/Daughter by Rilo Kiley.
> 
> This chapter is also pretty painful, but it's painful in a different way than chapter 9 was. In this one, it's more of a "tenderly punch you in the heart and then wrap you in a blanket" sort of pain. Enjoy!
> 
> **CWs:** dealing with the aftereffects of physical abuse, discussions of implied abuse, implied depression, vomiting, panic attack.

Tim spends most of Sunday sleeping as the bone-deep numbness morphs into exhaustion. He’s so tired and there’s not much for him to do except for studying, sleeping, and quickly hiding his laptop whenever he hears footsteps in the hallway.

Blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a shroud, Tim stares at his reflection in the mirror. The hit to his face didn’t bruise too badly. It’s a bit swollen, but at least the discoloration is enough that it could be covered with some good concealer. His arm, though, is another matter. The place where his mother grabbed him is marked by a deep blue and purple bruise. Tim can almost see the outline of her fingers. At least it’s only on his upper arm and it’s cold enough outside to justify him wearing long sleeves until it fades.

He leaves his room exactly twice. Once, he leaves to sneak a box of froot loops into his room. He always maintains a stash of nonperishable food in his room, but there’s no sense in depleting his hoard when he could still get food from the kitchen. The second time he leaves is when his parents call him for dinner. Dinner is quiet and stilted, but Tim will happily take silence over screaming. He excuses himself as quickly as politely possible and shuffles back upstairs so he can collapse into the sweet embrace of his bed.

* * *

Monday rolls around, but he doesn’t feel much better. Tim goes through the motions of forcing himself to roll out of bed and bike to school anyways. He covers the light bruising on his face with a judicious application of concealer. (Thank god for makeup tutorials on YouTube; they’ve been helping him cover the bruises from his nights out in Gotham for _years._ )

He has his usual debate team meeting during lunch, so he doesn’t run into Jason. School goes as usual and Tim bikes back home.

His dad’s car is in the driveway, which means that he left work early because his day was either very good or very bad. Uh oh. Mindful of his father’s possible bad mood, Tim tiptoes through the front door. Unfortunately, his father jumps up from the kitchen table as soon as Tim steps into the living room.

“Timmy!” he exclaims. Tim tenses, but his father seems… happy? Why would he be happy?

“Hi, Dad,” Tim replies neutrally as he evaluates Jack’s expression. There’s an underlying strain in his face like he’s still angry at Tim for something, but Tim can’t figure out why.

“I’m so glad that you’re home. Your mother and I decided to go shopping today and we picked up some new things for you,” Jack says, smiling.

“Oh, wow,” Tim says, surprised. “Thank you?”

Something about the smile on Jack’s face feels off and Tim doesn’t like it. He steels himself as Jack stands up and strides over to him. Jack lifts a hand and Tim tenses, but he only takes Tim’s hand and… hands him a new phone?

“It’s the very newest model from Drake Industries’ most recent line,” Jack explains as Tim stares at it. “We haven’t activated it yet since we figured that you’d want to deal with the techno-stuff yourself.”

“Wow,” Tim repeats, “Thanks.” He doesn’t have the memory card from his own phone, but all of its information should be saved to his Drake Industries account. All he’ll have to do is log in and bam, he’ll have his old phone number back and he won’t have to gather all of his contacts’ phone numbers again.

“Your mom is out running some errands, but in the meantime, let me show you the rest of your stuff.” His father starts walking towards the stairs, but stops when he realizes that Tim isn’t following him. “Come on, son,” he says cheerfully.

This is _weird._

“Coming,” Tim replies, hurrying after his dad.

They walk up the stairs together and head over to Tim’s room. The first thing Tim notices is the new television on his wall. It’s kind of unnecessarily large. There’s what looks like a wii console under it and a stack of video games.

“Do you like your new TV?” Jack asks, looking hopeful.

Tim forces a smile. “I love it! Thank you.”

“We got you a bunch of games too. Oh! We also bought a new camera for you.” Jack pats a compact digital camera sitting on Tim’s desk. Already, Tim can tell that it doesn’t have the same long-range zoom as his old camera. “It’s brand new. We got you a nice tripod for it too.”

“Oh, wow, thanks! I’ve never used a tripod before,” Tim says. The tripod would probably hold him back when he’s running through Gotham, but he doesn’t mention that little detail.

Jack smiles. “We’ve also increased the monthly spending limit on your debit card from ten thousand per month to twenty thousand. If you ever need more, just use our card instead of yours.”

Tim is pretty sure that he’s never spent even half that much money in a month, but he nods anyways. “Thanks a lot, Dad.”

“Of course, son.” Still smiling, Jack claps him firmly on the shoulder. Tim tries to hide how much it makes him jump.

He waits until his father has left the room to heave a sigh and sit down on the bed. What the fuck just happened? Why did his parents suddenly go out of their way to buy him a bunch of stuff? Maybe someone replaced them with clones or something.

Tim turns on his new phone and links it to his Drake Industries account. Seconds later, it begins downloading his contacts, messages, and photos from his account. Looks like he has a bunch of missed messages from Jason and Dick. He flips through them, but it’s just them suggesting which movies to watch.

On a whim, Tim starts typing a message to Jason and Dick.

**Chat: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, and 1 other person**

Tim [11/05, 3:41 PM]: Do you know if clones retain all of the memories of the original person, or would it take special technology to do that?

Tim [11/05, 3:41 PM]: Asking for a friend.

Jason [11/05, 3:42 PM]: ????????

Jason [11/05, 3:42 PM]: what the fuck?

Dick [11/05, 3:44 PM]: TIM YOU HAVE A PHONE AGAIN!!

Tim [11/05, 3:45 PM]: My parents got me a new phone.

Tim [11/05, 3:46 PM]: I’m worried that they might have been replaced by clones or something. They’re acting really weird.

Dick [11/05, 3:47 PM]: what do u mean by weird

Jason [11/05, 3:47 PM]: weird how?

Jason [11/05, 3:47 PM]: jinx

Jason [11/05, 3:47 PM]: you owe me a soda

Dick [11/05, 3:48 PM]: fuck u jay

Dick [11/05, 3:48 PM]: ok but tim, what u mean by weird

Dick [11/05, 3:49 PM]: do u need help?????

Tim [11/05, 3:49 PM]: I’m fine, don’t worry.

He walks over to the stack of video games sitting next to the brand new wii console. He sifts through them: Minecraft, which he already owns: something called Xenoblade Chronicles, Pikmin 3, and Lego Dimensions, which looks like it’s made for ten year olds…. Most of the games either look boring, are something he already owns, or look like they were designed for children.

Tim [11/05, 3:53 PM]: They bought me a ton of video games out of the blue. I think they got me Fortnite. Who even plays that anymore??

Jason [11/05, 3:54 PM]: they got you fortnite?? HAHAHAHA oh my god

Dick [11/05, 3:55 PM]: do kids not play fortnight anymore???????

Tim [11/05, 3:57 PM]: 1) I’m not a kid. 2) No, they do not.

Dick [11/05, 3:57 PM]: wow i feel old

Jason [11/05, 3:58 PM]: you are old

Dick [11/05, 4:00 PM]: thx im really feeling the love 2night

_Jason sent 1 picture_

Tim opens the picture and laughs. It’s of Jason sticking out his tongue while he flips off the camera.

Dick [11/05, 4:02 PM]: idk much about clones’ memories but i will srsly fight ur parents clones if u need me to

Jason [11/05, 4:03 PM]: wait do your parents not randomly buy you stuff?? they’re rich

Dick [11/05, 4:03 PM]: ooooo jay has a point

Oh no. Abort mission.

Tim [11/05, 4:04 PM]: They buy me plenty of stuff, guys. Like you said, they’re rich.

Tim [11/05, 4:04 PM]: Nevemind, forget I said anything.

He sets down his phone before Dick and Jason can try to pursue that line of interrogation. It’s probably a good idea to get started on his homework before his mom comes home just in case his parents start fighting again. Concentrating while they’re yelling is kind of difficult.

* * *

“--and we got you some creamy lobster linguine!” Smiling brightly, Janet sets a plate heaped with pasta and lobster in front of Tim. “It’s one of the chef’s best dishes.”

“This restaurant is very highly rated,” Jack adds as he picks up his fork and knife. “The head chef trained under Wolfgang Puck.”

Tim plasters on his best polite smile. “Oh, wow, that’s really neat.”

His parents watch him closely as he twirls some pasta onto his fork and takes a bite. The dish would be good if Tim didn’t hate lobster, but he doesn’t want to disappoint his parents. They look so hopeful and he doesn’t want to face the backlash of his rudeness if their weird generosity suddenly disappears.

“It’s very good,” he says after a moment, careful to keep any hint of a grimace from his face. “Thank you, Mom, Dad.”

Janet nods and smiles before starting on her own plate of creamy lobster linguine. Jack follows suit and raises his eyebrows, “This is really good. Good choice, Janet.”

“Thank you.” She smiles a bright company smile at him. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

Tim forces himself to eat enough lobster pasta to not look rude. If he lets his mind drift as he chews mechanically, then maybe he can wander far enough away from himself that he won’t notice the soggy texture of the lobster.

* * *

“Listen, just forget that I said anything about clones or whatever,” Tim sighs, leaning back into the uncomfortable wooden library chair. “Like I told you, it’s probably nothing.”

“Didn’t sound like nothing,” Jason shoots back. “Listen, if your parents are acting weird--”

“Jason, it’s fine.” He throws an arm over his eyes before realizing that his white sleeve is perilously close to the concealer covering the bruise on his face. Primer, setting powder, and setting spray might not be enough to keep the concealer from staining the fabric. Tim pulls his arm back, but he doesn’t see any concealer marks on his sleeve. Good, he doesn’t need anyone asking more questions right now, let alone Jason and the rest of the Waynes. 

Jason frowns and props his chin up with one hand. “Is it, though?”

“ _Yes_ , it is.”

Humming, Jason rolls his shoulders. “I don’t know, Timmers. You said that it’s strange that your parents are suddenly paying attention to you and buying you things. It shouldn’t be strange for parents to--”

“Jason,” Tim interrupts, voice cracking because today is just not his day, “Stop.” Jason closes his mouth and Tim continues, “You’re taking everything out of context. My parents love me and I’m tired of hearing you-- of hearing you make assumptions. Please stop bringing it up. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jason says softly. “I’ll stop bringing it up. Just know that I’ll be here if you ever need to vent, okay? The same goes for Dick and Bruce. We just want to help”

Tim sighs but nods anyways, eyes fixed on a crack in one of the library’s ceiling tiles. “I know.”

* * *

Tim tiptoes through the rest of the week, waiting for cracks to appear in his parents’ carefully constructed facade of false cheerfulness and munificence. Is it a test? Are they trying to send him a message?

They don’t bring up his grades at all; the closest they get is his father glancing over Tim’s shoulder to look at his math homework. After the incident with his algebra test last week, their new behavior is strange to say the least.

On Tuesday, his father praises Tim’s politeness when he insists on clearing everyone’s dishes from the dinner table. Flushing, Tim smiles and hurriedly puts the dishes in the dishwasher. Afterwards, he heads up to his room, his face still glowing from the praise. Maybe his parents are acting like this because they want him to be more polite in general? He can do that; it’s an easy expectation to meet.

For the rest of the week, Tim makes sure to be as polite as possible. He minds his posture and practices his company manners at dinner. His parents seem relatively pleased, but Tim can’t help but wonder what he’s missing. He has to be missing _something_. It feels like he’s playing whack-a-mole with his parents’ expectations.

* * *

“That’s an excellent boardroom smile, Tim,” his mother tells him at dinner on Wednesday, smiling. “Remember, keep your shoulders back and mind your elbows. The future chair won’t know what hit him.”

“Thank you, Mom,” Tim says, careful to not smile too hard lest he break his polite mask.

* * *

“Timothy Drake, please report to the guidance counselor’s office,” the intercom announces during Tim’s history class on Thursday.

“Ooooh, someone’s in trouble!” one of his debate teammates snickers as Tim stands up.

His teacher shushes the student and nods at Tim as he packs up his papers. Slinging his backpack over one shoulder, Tim walks out of class with his head held high. He heads for the web of guidance counselors’ office next to the main office and stops outside the one with a sign labeled “FRESHMAN GUIDANCE COUNSELOR.”

The door is already open, so Tim sticks his head into the room. His guidance counselor, a smiling man with curly, close-cropped black hair, is seated at his desk. Tim is pretty sure that they only met once for the mandatory meeting that all freshmen have. The brown-haired woman in a well-worn pantsuit next to him, however, is unfamiliar.

Tim puts on a smile. “Hi, I’m Tim Drake. I believe you called for me over the intercom…?”

His guidance counselor-- Mr. Williams-- beckons for Tim to come in. “Hi, Tim. You can take a seat wherever you’d like. Ms. Fletcher has some questions for you. I’ll let you both get to it-- if you need me, I’ll be in Ms. Rivera’s office next door.” He stands up and leaves, closing the office door behind himself with a click.

Tim sits down in the seat next to the mystery woman who is apparently Ms. Fletcher. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, extending a hand to shake.

She shakes his hand and smiles. “Hi, I’m Mary Fletcher and I’m a part of New Jersey’s department of children and families. Is it all right if I record our interview?”

“That’s fine with me.” He sets his backpack down on the floor next to the chair.

Ms. Fletcher nods and takes a slim device out of her pocket. After she hits the record button, she leans back in her chair. “I’m Mary Fletcher and I’m interviewing Tim Drake on Thursday, November eighth for the department of children and families.”

“The department of children and families… does that mean that you’re part of CPS?” Tim tilts his head and guides his face into a confused frown. Hopefully his use of CPS instead of the New Jersey-specific CPP will throw her off.

“That’s right. I’m here to check in with you about a report that we received about your sprained ankle.” Ms. Fletcher smiles and Tim returns it easily. Did Dr. Thompkins file a CPP report about him? Dammit. “My job today is to make sure that everything is all right at home. Now, I’m here to gather information. I was not there and don’t know what happened. When I ask you questions, I don’t know the answer to those questions. Okay?”

“Okay.” Tim nods and clasps his hands in his lap.

“Remember, it’s okay to say ‘I don’t know’ or ‘I don’t understand that question.’ The important thing here is to tell the truth. Can you promise me that you’ll be truthful?” She watches him carefully from behind her wire-rimmed glasses.

“I’ll be truthful.” The lie rolls off his tongue easily.

She smiles at him again. “Excellent. Now, can you tell me a little bit about yourself? You’re a freshman, right? How are you liking high school so far?”

“I like it. The assignments are harder than in middle school, but I get to think more about them, which is nice. Plus, we get more freedom to choose our classes and the cafeteria here is better than the one in my middle school.”

Ms. Fletcher nods. “Most kids I talk to like high school more than middle school too. What’s your favorite class so far?”

Tim takes a moment to consider the question. “I like my English class best,” he decides at last. “I really like writing, but I don’t always like all of the books that we read.”

“What have you read so far?”

“ _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , but that book was good. We also read _Much Ado About Nothing_ and some other Shakespeare.”

She makes a face. “I never liked Shakespeare when I was in school.”

“It’s hard to get through,” he agrees. “I have to use a dictionary for every other sentence. I get that his writing style is interesting, but it’s hard to pick up any substance from his work when I can barely understand it.”

“What do you like reading for fun, then?” Ms. Fletcher asks curiously, pushing up her glasses.

“Well, I’m in the book club at school. We typically switch the genre every week, so I’ve been reading a lot of different genres recently. I like mystery novels a lot, though.”

“Do you have a favorite mystery novel?”

Tim drums his fingers on his thigh. “Probably _The Finding Games_ series, but I haven’t read the whole thing yet.”

“I’ve heard good things about that series. That’s pretty advanced for your grade, too. You seem like a very intelligent young man, Tim. Your parents must be proud.” Ms. Fletcher smiles as the pit of unease in Tim’s stomach grows at the mention of his parents. “Let’s talk a little bit about your parents. They both live at home at home with you, right?”

Careful to keep his nervousness from his face, Tim nods. “They do, yeah.”

“Who is typically at your house when you come home from school?”

“Sometimes my parents will work from home or they’ll have the afternoon off or something, so they’ll be there when I get back. Depending on when I get home, our maid is sometimes there too.” Technically, it’s not a lie. He just conveniently left out the fact that his parents travel a lot.

“Who’s your maid?”

“Mrs. McIlvaine. She’s really nice. She cleans for us and cooks too.”

Ms. Fletcher nods and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “When your parents are home, what kinds of things make you scared?”

Tim frowns. “You mean things that my parents do?” 

She nods and he pretends to think. If he tells her the full story, then she’ll be concerned. He just has to leave out the bad parts. “Hmm… I guess if I get a bad grade because then they’ll be disappointed.”

This answer seems to be a good one because Ms. Fletcher looks faintly pleased. “Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“All right. Let’s talk a little bit about discipline.” She leans back in her chair and steeples her fingers. “What does the word discipline mean to you?”

Tim clasps his hands in his lap as he thinks. “It means that I broke a rule that existed for a reason. My parents only discipline me because they want to help me learn responsibility. They want me to learn how to be a role model for others.”

“That’s a good goal to have,” Ms. Fletcher says.

Tim smiles over the sinking feeling in his stomach. “Yeah, I think so too.”

“What sorts of things do they discipline you for?”

He shrugs. “If I get a bad grade on a test because I was texting instead of studying, they’ll take away my phone for a while so I can actually study.” There, that’s relatively close to the truth. “If I ever get really upset over something and I start getting way too angry, they’ll send me to my room to cool down.”

“How long is ‘a while’?”

“A few days, but no more than a week.”

She nods. “All right. And what do you mean when you say that you get really upset? What does that look like?”

Tim resists the urge to fiddle with his watch or his uniform. “If I argue with them over something like how much I’m on my phone and they say that I text too much. Just normal stuff, I guess.”

Ms. Fletcher chuckles. “Oh, I’ve had that argument with my kids before.”

Tim laughs with her. “I can imagine.”

“I’m obligated to ask this, but do you feel safe at home right now?” She asks, watching him from over her glasses.

A smile slides easily onto his face, but that speaks more to a great deal of practice rather than any amount of sincerity. “Of course!” he replies, as if the answer was obvious. “My parents love me and are fortunate enough to have more than enough financial resources to be able to provide for me. I’m really very lucky to be in this situation.”

“I’m glad to hear it, honey. You’re a good kid, Tim.” Ms. Fletcher smiles back at him. “Well, I think we can start wrapping things up here.”

* * *

As Tim walks back to class, he ducks into the boy’s bathroom and barely makes it into a stall before he vomits into the toilet. It does little to ease the sinking feeling in his chest.

* * *

That afternoon, Tim offers to help his father sort through Drake Industries expense reports without being asked. He carefully organizes the papers by department and then alphabetically by subdepartment. When he’s done, the kitchen table is covered in neatly stacked piles of papers.

“Wow, you’re so efficient!” His dad places his hands on his hips as he surveys Tim’s work. “Maybe I should let you do this instead of me from now on.”

Tim smiles, basking in the praise. His dad trusts Tim enough to let him do official work for him! “Thanks, Dad!”

“If you’re doing as well in school as you did with this, then you must be at the top of your class,” he remarks. “Speaking of, how is school? Did anything interesting happen today?” There’s a gleam in his eye that Tim isn’t quite sure what to do with, so he defaults to being smiling and polite.

“School was good,” he replies. “There weren’t any quizzes or tests today.”

Nodding thoughtfully, his dad keeps smiling. “I see. Well, keep working hard,” he says, and lets the matter drop.

* * *

On Friday, Tim wakes up to the sound of movement in the hallway. Something rolls down the hall and then goes _bump-bump-bump_ down the stairs.

Tim is intimately familiar with the sound of suitcases being taken downstairs. Are his parents leaving today? He rubs his eyes and rolls over to check the time on his phone. _5:18 AM._ Great.

Well, he should probably go investigate. Peeling himself out of bed, Tim shuffles over to his bedroom door and sticks his head out into the hallway. The lights in the hallway are on and he has to squint against the sudden brightness. “Mom? Dad?” he calls, voice scratchy from sleep. “Are you leaving soon?”

Jack steps out of the master bedroom, toting along his sturdy traveling suitcase. “Good morning, Tim. We’re just finishing packing.”

Tim rubs at his eyes. “When are you leaving for the airport?”

“Oh, in about forty-five minutes or so.”

His brain is still coming online, but the manners drilled into him from an early age don’t require much thinking. “Need me to carry anything?”

Jack thinks for a moment. “I have a few suitcases that are ready to go. They’re standing right next to the door.” He jerks his chin towards the door of the master bedroom.

“Okay,” Tim replies as he shuffles into the master bedroom. Jack turns and carries his suitcase down the stairs.

Right now, it’s functioning more as his dad’s bedroom. A few items of father’s clothing sit, unfolded, on the bed. A small carry-on suitcase sits open on the floor, revealing a clear plastic bag containing his toiletries. Tim grabs one of the suitcases next to the door and carries it downstairs. It’s heavy and he struggles a little bit to carry it down the annoyingly long staircase, but he manages.

Tim spends the next forty-five minutes helping his parents lug suitcases out to the car. It’s still dark out and it’s cold enough that he has to grab his coat from next to the front door to avoid shivering uncontrollably.

Soon enough, the car is loaded. His father checks his watch. “We should get going now. Don’t want to miss our flight. We’ll see you later, son.” He leans in and quickly hugs Tim before sliding into the driver’s seat.

His mother smiles, pleased. “Bye, Timmy.” She leans in and wraps Tim in a loose hug before hopping into the passenger seat.

Tim watches as the car reverses and drives down the long, long driveway before disappearing from sight. It’s too cold outside for him to linger when his only footwear are the sneakers that he hastily shoved his feet into, so he shuffles back inside. Well, he might as well get ready for school since he’s already awake.

As he pours himself a bowl of cereal, Tim dimly realizes that he forgot to ask where his parents were going or when they would be back.

* * *

The rest of the day passes in the dream-like way that days tend to do when he wakes up way too early in the morning. At lunch, Jason doesn’t bother Tim when he puts his head down on the library table to take a quick nap. However, because Jason is a wonderful person, he does promise to wake Tim up if he notices any librarians heading over. Tim mumbles his thanks and conks out for twenty blissful minutes.

The nap helps a little, but he’s still exhausted by the time that the final bell rings. He has just enough energy left to bike home and drag himself up to his bed before settling in for a nice nap.

Three hours later, it’s dark outside when Tim wakes up because November is a terrible, cursed month. He lies around in his bed for a bit and messes around on his phone before his stomach starts to rumble.

Right, food should happen. Food is something that humans need.

Tim wraps a blanket around his shoulders and shuffles downstairs like a long-lost ruler returning to his kingdom. Luckily, there are some leftovers in the fridge. It’s probably a crime to reheat nice steak in the microwave, but Tim is feeling daring today. Sue him, he’s too lazy to wait twenty minutes for it to reheat on the stovetop. Tim sticks the steak in the microwave but keeps the steak-frites cold; warm, soggy french fries are gross, even when they’re fancy french fries.

The microwave beeps and Tim transfers his meal to a plate. There’s some leftover sauce in the fridge, so he pours it on the side. Grabbing some silverware and a napkin, Tim carries the plate up to his room. If microwaving steak is a crime, well, there’s nobody around to stop him. His house, his rules.

He eats dinner at his desk while watching YouTube videos. Eventually, he ends up lounging on his stomach in bed as he scrolls through news sites. Still, no matter how tired he is, he can’t afford to spend all night in bed. Gotham’s Shadow has work to do, after all.

Tim dons his usual night outfit, grabs his gear, and heads out to the docks in uptown Gotham. Maybe he can try to figure out where Scarecrow manufactured the fear candy and to do that, he’ll need to sniff out Scarecrow’s suppliers. Besides, there’s always trouble at the docks. This is Gotham, after all. The city is practically made out of trouble, smog, and obnoxious amounts of honking.

His new camera isn’t nearly as good at his old one, but the docks are relatively quiet by Gotham’s standards. Tim spots a few low-level drug dealers but they aren’t the source of the problem so he leaves them alone. He mostly spends his time revelling in how the cold from the metal shipping containers seeps into his stomach and the feeling of the sea breeze on his face. The docks aren’t as visually pretty as the rest of the city, but Tim appreciates how the reflections of the streetlights dance in the waves.

At one in the morning, he calls it a night and heads home. Exhausted, Tim collapses into bed and thinks of nothing for a long, long time.

* * *

In the morning, he wakes up to his phone chiming with a text notification. Sunlight peeks through the gaps in his curtains and Tim rolls over, shoving his face into his pillow. Going back to sleep sounds appealing, but he should check his texts. His parents could have texted him to tell him where they’ve gone. He lifts his phone above his head and opens his text messages.

Jason [11/10, 11:04 AM]: hey do you want to come hang out this weekend?

Jason [11/10, 11:04 AM]: we could do a movie marathon. just let me know what your parents say

Tim blinks at the messages before setting down his phone. He can reply to Jason later, he thinks drowsily.

An hour later, Tim wakes up again. The sun streaming in through the gaps in his curtains is significantly brighter and Tim feels significantly drowsier. He leans over the side of his bed to grab a box of cheerios stashed under his bed.

For a while, Tim messes around on his phone and shovels handfuls of dry cheerios into his mouth. He doesn’t end up getting out of bed until two o’clock, when he finally shuffles into the bathroom to shower and do the rest of his morning ritual.

Tim stares at himself in the mirror. The seemingly perpetual bags under his eyes look much better and the bruise on his face has faded to an ugly yellow and green. It’s noticeable enough that he’ll need to keep covering it with concealer for a while, but it’s not _too_ bad. The bruise on his arm, however, is a different story. It’s still blue and definitely hand-shaped. Ugh.

When he comes out of the bathroom, there are new texts on his phone.

Jason [11/10, 2:03 PM]: are you awake yet?? lmk about movie night

Jason [11/10, 2:04 PM]: we can always postpone it if you need to

Dick [11/10, 2:26 PM]: timmyyyyyyyy

_Dick sent 3 pictures_

Dick [11/10, 2:27 PM]: look at that face!!!!

Tim snorts and gets dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants before he replies to Dick first.

Tim [11/10, 2:31 PM]: Ace is so cute.

Dick [11/10, 2:32 PM]: youre alive!!!!!!

Dick [11/10, 2:32 PM]: u should come hang out if youre free

Tim [11/10, 2:33 PM]: Maybe. Moving is hard.

Next, he types out a response to Jason’s texts.

Tim [11/10, 2:34 PM]: I’m awake. I just got out of the shower.

Tim [11/10, 2:34 PM]: I’ll think about it. I’m kind of tired.

A new text notification pops up on his screen in his group chat with Dick and Jason. Dick must have gotten tired of trying to separately talk to Tim and Jason at the same time.

**Chat: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, and 1 other person**

Dick [11/10, 2:36 PM]: do u need us to come rescue u

Dick [11/10, 2:36 PM]: from ur parents

Dick [11/10, 2:36 PM]: and bring u to our house and feed u delicious snacks

Tim [11/10, 2:37 PM]: My parents aren’t home, actually.

Dick [11/10, 2:37 PM]: :0 :0 :0

Jason [11/10, 2:38 PM]: wait when did they leave???

Tim [11/10, 2:38 PM]: Yesterday morning.

Dick[11/10, 2:39 PM]: u should stay with us until theyre back

Jason [11/10, 2:40 PM]: seconded. dick needs entertainment besides bothering me.

Sighing, Tim throws an arm over his face. Normally, he doesn’t mind hanging out with Dick and Jason. He enjoys it, even. But right now, it feels like there’s ice spreading through his bones, numbing him. Tim is made of skin and flesh and bone and a terrible emptiness lurking in the space between his ribs. He’s hollow, but his limbs may as well be made of lead.

Jason [11/10, 2:42 PM]: what are you doing rn? you should come over.

Jason [11/10, 2:42 PM]: we can talk alfred into making us cookies.

He sets down his phone and throws an arm over his eyes. Doing anything other than laying on his bed sounds like literal torture. Maybe he should take a nap.

Tim is so, so tired.

* * *

Three hours later, Tim pries his eyes open. There’s-- something wrong. A noise? It takes him a moment to realize that his phone is ringing. Tim checks the caller ID and sighs when his phone displays _Bruce Wayne_. Hopefully everyone is okay.

He answers the call and holds his phone up to his ear. “Hi,” he croaks.

“Hi, Tim. Are you all right?” Concern coats Bruce’s words.

Tim frowns. Why does Bruce sound so worried? “Yeah, I’m fine. Just woke up from a nap.”

“Oh, good. We’ve been trying to call you and I suppose I panicked a little when the boys said that your parents weren’t home.” Bruce admits.

“Sorry,” Tim says after a moment. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“It’s all right, Tim. We’re just glad that you’re okay.” Bruce says gently. There’s the sound of what’s likely Dick and Jason squabbling in the background. Bruce pauses as if listening to someone and then adds, “Would you like to come over for dinner?”

“Make sure to ask if he wants to have a sleepover!” Jason calls, though his voice is muffled.

“Jason is asking if you want to have a sleepover. Dick is nodding,” Bruce adds, amusement coloring his voice.

Tim picks at a loose thread on his sheets. “I don’t want to impose….”

“Tim, you’re never an imposition,” Bruce says warmly. “You’re more than welcome to stay over any time you like.”

He pulls at the loose thread as he considers the offer. “Okay,” he says at last. “I’ll sleep over tonight.”

There’s muffled cheering in the background of Bruce’s call. “Glad to hear it, Tim. We’d love to have you. I’ll drive over and pick you up in twenty minutes, if that works for you.”

“You don’t have to drive me,” he defends. “I can walk, it’s really not a big deal.”

“Our houses are nearly a mile apart. It’s no trouble to drive you. Does twenty minutes work?”

Tim sighs. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

“All right. See you soon, chum.”

Bruce hangs up and Tim stares at his phone for a moment before sighing. Time to pack, he supposes. First, he should throw on a sweatshirt to hide the bruise on his arm. Next, some jeans instead of his old sweatpants. He packs quickly-- he’s only staying over for one night, after all-- before hurrying into the bathroom to carefully cover up his bruise with makeup.

His setting spray has only just dried when there’s a knock on the front door. Tim shoves his makeup and makeup remover into his backpack before he hurries down the stairs.

When he opens the front door, Bruce Wayne smiles at him. “Hi, Tim. Ready to go?”

Tim nods. “Yeah, I’m ready. Let’s go.”

Bruce opens the passenger side door for him, sliding into the driver’s seat a moment later. He expertly reverses and heads down the long driveway. As Drake Manor fades into the horizon, he says, “So, how are you doing, Tim? What have you been up to today?”

Ah, an interrogation. This is familiar territory. “Oh, nothing much,” Tim hedges. “I studied for a bit and took a nap. How are you?” Even when Bruce isn’t looking directly at him, Tim can feel the weight of his gaze just the same. Hopefully he won’t be able to sniff out Tim’s lie.

“A little tired, but I’ll manage. I spent most of the morning playing with Ace and keeping Dick from accidentally breaking any more furniture. Then I dealt with some WE business and collaborated with Jason to hide snacks from Alfred,” Bruce replies. “He almost certainly knows that we’ve snuck junk food into the house and is merely humoring us, but trying to sneak past him is part of the fun.”

Tim makes a noise of agreement and leans back into his seat. Bruce seems content to let the conversation die naturally, but Tim can’t shake the feeling of being studied. The rest of the short drive is silent as he stares out the window at the grounds passing by.

A few minutes later, Tim drops off his things in the guest room that he stayed in last time. Other than the freshly made bed, the room looks largely the same. Afterwards, Bruce walks Tim over to his bedroom, where Dick and Jason are sprawled out on Bruce’s unnecessarily large bed. An assortment of snacks sits on Bruce’s nightstand with more in two trays perched on the bed. He gets the feeling that Alfred was responsible for the platter of sliced vegetables and dip, but hey, it looks good.

Dick sits on the side of the bed that’s closest to the door. He’s leaning back against a veritable mountain of pillows and looks very comfortable. “Hey, Timbo!”

Tim hovers in the doorway. Are they even allowed to eat on Bruce’s bed? Will he get mad if there are crumbs everywhere?

A hand lightly touches his shoulder. Tim flinches away, and the hand immediately retreats. He glances over his shoulder and finds Bruce watching him, something gentle in his eyes. Bruce looks almost… sad? “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Bruce says gently.

“I’m fine,” Tim replies automatically. “I just-- is it okay to eat on your bed? I don’t want to make a mess or anything.”

The sad look in Bruce’s eyes intensifies. “It’s okay, Tim. I promise. If it bothers me, I can always change the sheets.”

“Okay,” Tim says, still skeptical.

“Why don’t you go join the boys?” Bruce suggests lightly, leaning against the doorway. “Some work came up that I need to take care of, but I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“C’mere, Tim,” Jason encourages. “Get your butt over here, there’s plenty of room.”

Tim bites his lip, brain whirling. It just doesn’t feel _proper._ He opens his mouth and what comes out is, “I should probably study, I have homework.”

“It’s Saturday night,” Bruce points out, not unkindly. “Your homework will still be there tomorrow.”

Tim hesitates for a moment, looking between Bruce and Jason, before he finally gives in and climbs onto the bed. It’s alarmingly comfortable-- the mattress must be memory foam or something. He crawls over so he’s sitting on Jason’s other side and Dick pushes a blanket over to him. Tim leans back against the mound of pillows and wraps the blanket around his shoulders, pulling his knees up to his chest.

“Have you eaten dinner yet? Alfred is making pizza for us,” Dick informs him.

“Not yet,” Tim replies.

Snickering, Jason adds, “It’ll be a few minutes, though. Alfred always waits for the pizzas to cool first because _somebody_ never has the patience to wait until the pizza won’t burn his mouth off.” He pokes Dick with what’s presumably a foot, though Tim can’t tell for sure because Jason is wrapped in about four blankets.

“Alfred’s pizzas are wonderful,” Dick retorts, poking Jason’s foot.

“I’ll come back and check on you in a few hours,” Bruce says from the doorway. He exchanges a Meaningful Look with Dick, who nods and gives him a thumbs up.

“Have fun. I’ll try to keep Dick from eating all of the snacks,” Jason replies.

Dick rolls his eyes. “I’ll try to save some of the chocolate for you.”

Smiling, Bruce shakes his head and disappears somewhere down the hallway. Alfred takes his place only moments later, bearing a platter of cheese pizza and several plates.

“You’re the best, Alfred,” Jason says earnestly as Alfred sets the pizza down on the nightstand. “Let me know if you ever need to fight anyone for you. Just say the word.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow at him. “I assure you that I am more than capable of fighting my own battles. Do you not recall how I was the one to raise Master Bruce?” He carefully doles out several slices of pizza and begins passing out plates. “Now, I’ll leave you all to it. If you require anything, don’t hesitate to text.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Tim says before taking a bite of the pizza. It’s very good.

“Now, Tim,” Dick begins, “How do you feel about High School Musical?”

* * *

Bruce returns as the third movie is beginning and takes his place between Dick and Jason. They waste no time in curling up against him with Dick’s head pillowed on his shoulder and Jason draped on his side.

“Wait, hold on,” Dick says, rolling out of the bed and walking around to Tim’s side. Perplexed, Tim watches as Dick flops down next to him, leaving Tim sandwiched between Dick and Jason.

“You look like you need some certified big brother cuddles,” Dick informs him seriously, holding out his arms.

“O--kay,” Tim says, drawing out the word as he stares at Dick.

Dick wiggles his fingers impatiently. “Come here, Timmy. You look like you need to be wrapped in blankets.”

“On it,” Jason says from Tim’s other side, peeling several blankets from the outside of his next and dropping them onto Tim.

Finally, Tim gives in and scoots closer to Dick. As soon as Tim settles, Dick manages to wrap an arm around him and Jason wriggles closer, still cocooned in blankets. Jason doesn’t quite use him as a pillow, but he does rest his head next to Tim’s side. It has the bonus of being close enough to Dick that he can gently pet Jason’s hair with the arm wrapped around Tim.

“You guys are a bunch of mother hens,” Tim informs them, but his words lack any real heat.

Laughing, Dick presses his cheek into Tim’s hair. “Yeah, but it’s fun. As a card-carrying big brother, it’s my sworn duty to be a mother hen. But Jason is the real mom friend here.”

“Hey!” Jason protests.

“You know what? You’re right,” Tim agrees.

Sighing, Jason pulls a blanket over his head. Amusingly, he almost looks like a turtle retreating into its shell. “You’re both ridiculous,” he says, voice muffled.

“You’re the one who insisted that I eat half of your lunch when I forgot to pack mine,” Tim points out.

Jason’s head pops back out of the blankets, mock frowning. “You guys are the worst.”

“Nah, you love us,” Dick says lightly, ruffling Jason’s hair. Jason half-heartedly grumbles a protest, but soon enough he settles back in to watch the rest of the movie.

* * *

By the time that High School Musical 3 finishes, they’re all half-asleep. At some point, the bed turned into a sprawl of limbs and blankets.

The end credits begin to roll and Jason groans, rolling over onto his stomach. “What time is it?”

Dick unlocks his phone and squints at the time. “Almost one in the morning.”

“One AM already?” Tim blinks sleepily at him from where he’s using Dick’s shoulder as a pillow. He’d thought that he’d slept so much that he couldn’t sleep any more today, but more sleep sounds really nice. “Huh.”

“I think it’s about time for everyone to go to bed,” Bruce rumbles.

“But B,” Jason whines, “I don’t wanna move.”

Bruce lovingly rolls his eyes and easily scoops Jason up, blankets and all. He glances over at Tim and Dick. “Are you coming, or do you require further assistance?”

Dick pokes Tim’s cheek. “Let’s get you into bed, kiddo.”

“Urgh,” Tim groans eloquently. “Fine.”

It takes a moment to free himself of the tangle of blankets. Dick merely rolls off the bed and lands gracefully on his feet. He holds a hand out to help Tim out of the blanket nest and lifts Tim off the bed before safely depositing him on the ground. “There you go!”

Rubbing his eyes, Tim nods and starts shuffling out of Bruce’s room. Bruce himself follows suit, reaching out once to adjust the blanket that was slipping off of Tim’s shoulders.

He doesn’t realize that he’s being shepherded over to his room until Bruce pauses outside of Tim’s bedroom door. “Good night. Let us know if you need anything,,” he says with a smile.

Jason’s hand emerges from the pile of blankets and waves in the air until Tim takes pity on him and steps forward. Satisfied, Jason clumsily pats Tim’s head. “G’night, Timbo.”

Tim smiles and slips inside his room, shutting the door behind himself.

* * *

The next morning finds Tim curled up on a couch in the study with Dick and the first few books in _The Finding Game_ series resting on the coffee table. Dick is stretched out with one leg dangling off the couch as he flips through a book about knitting patterns.

Tim is thoroughly absorbed in the second book in _The Finding Game_ series when he hears footsteps behind him. He immediately straightens and plants his feet flat on the ground so he’s sitting like a normal person. When he glances over his shoulder and finds Bruce, he’s almost surprised. Of course Bruce is here; this is his study. Where else would he be?

Dick glances up and waves. “Hey, B,” he says before going back to his book.

“Hi, Bruce. I can get out of your way if you need your study for something,” Tim offers.

“Don’t worry about that, I was actually looking for you. Mind if I sit?” Bruce asks, gesturing at the spot next to Tim.

Dick retracts his legs so he’s no longer taking up nearly the entire couch and throws one leg over the armrest of the couch instead. How that position could possibly be comfortable, Tim has no idea. Tim scoots over so he’s sitting in the middle and Bruce can take a seat at the other end of the couch. Dick leans over and briefly rests his cheek on top of Tim’s head in greeting before returning to his book.

Glancing at the stack of books, Tim resists the urge to wring his hands. Dick and Jason had told him that it was okay to read them, so hopefully Bruce isn’t mad about Tim looking through them? He doesn’t seem mad right now, just relaxed. Okay, then it’s probably fine.

“I wanted to go over a few things with you,” Bruce says. “Planning for the future, and all that. Sound good?”

“Okay.” Tim carefully sets the book down on top of the others and folds his hand in his lap. “What are you thinking?”

“Do you know when your parents are coming back from their trip?”

He can feel Bruce’s eyes on him. Tim bites his lip and fiddles with the sleeve of his sweatshirt before replying, “I forgot to ask.”

Dick gently knocks their knees together. “Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

Bruce nods in agreement, expression neutral. “Dick is right. Did your parents tell you where they’re going?”

“...I also forgot to ask about that,” Tim says and hastily adds, “Sorry.”

Wordlessly, Dick reaches out and slowly wraps an arm around Tim’s shoulders. He telegraphs his movements enough that Tim has time to force himself to relax before Dick gently pulls him closer.

“It’s not your fault. We’ll figure it out,” Bruce reassures him. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I’ll be honest, Tim. I’d like for you to stay with us until your parents return like you did when your ankle was healing in October.”

And there it is. Tim frowns. “My ankle is fine now, though,” he points out reasonably. “And I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” Dick starts rubbing circles into Tim’s shoulder with his thumb.

Bruce holds up his hands. “I know, I know. But hear me out first, okay? Your family’s maid only visits a few times a week, right?”

Tim crosses his arms. “Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. What’s your point?”

“Tim, you’re a very talented and capable young man. But just because you _can_ take care of yourself doesn’t mean that you _should_.” Bruce’s face softens. “I’m concerned that you don’t have enough supervision or access to help when you’re living on your own. What if there’s another emergency like your sprained ankle? If you stay with us, then we’d be able to help with those types of situations.”

“Well, I don’t know if my parents would be comfortable with me staying over here,” Tim defends.

“Then we can reach out to other resources and find you a place to stay,” Bruce replies evenly.

Tim knows a threat when he hears one. “What, like CPS?” He fights to keep the anger from his voice but to his dismay, it leaks through anyway. “You do realize any CPS report that you… _instigate_ would immediately be treated as an attempt to sabotage my parents’ company, right? Besides, CPS would have very little incentive to investigate our family, given our strong political ties and the fact that my situation is _absolutely fine_. I have everything I need, Bruce.”

“You bring up some good points, Tim. That’s why I suggested that you stay with us.” Bruce’s face stays impressively calm; he’s likely had a lot of practice doing that as Batman.

“They refused to let me come over here the last time that I asked them to,” Tim shoots back. It’s technically a lie of omission: his parents refused due to his poor grades, but Bruce doesn’t need to know that. Lying to the literal Batman makes his skin prickle, but Tim meets Bruce's eyes steadily nonetheless. “They’d probably be pretty angry if they found out you were involved.”

Now, Bruce looks faintly intrigued. He tilts his head minutely. “Angry?”

Next to Tim, Dick tenses slightly before it drains away as if it never happened. He continues to rub soothing circles into Tim’s shoulder.

Tim shrugs and studies the bookshelves behind Bruce. “I didn’t do well on a math test. They were angry that I wanted to come over here instead of study.”

Dick makes a sympathetic noise. Snapping his book shut, Dick sets it on the coffee table before bringing his free hand up to rub Tim’s other shoulder.

“Tim,” Bruce says, painfully gentle, “Does this have anything to do with how you got the bruise on your face?”

Tim freezes, his chest burning white-hot, before he turns to fully face Bruce. “What? How--” He’s been so careful to cover it with makeup every day since the incident. What happened?

“I saw it last night when I was checking in on all of you while you were asleep,” Bruce explains. He’s infuriatingly calm. It kind of makes Tim want to yell, to _scream_ , to destroy something.

“That’s none of your business,” Tim snaps, springing to his feet. Dick’s hands slide off his shoulders and Bruce hardly even blinks. “You don’t know _anything_! My parents love me. They love me, and they take care of me, and they’re good people.” Anger bubbles in his stomach. It feels like Bruce is able to stare right through him and dive into his head.

“Tim,” Dick says gently, painfully.

Tim knows what they must see when he looks at him, but he’s _not_ being abused. His parents have their own problems to worry about besides the ones that Tim makes for them. They have their company and their tumultuous marriage and their archaeological trips. No matter what Bruce thinks, he’s not being abused, he’s really not.

“Someone can love you and still hurt you. My goal is for you to be safe and happy, Tim,” Bruce replies, his voice even and measured. “We don’t have to talk about long term plans right now. But until your parents return, I would like you to stay here with us. I want to work with you and help you.” Dick places one hand on Bruce’s arm and gives him a look. Bruce quiets, closing his mouth.

“You can’t just-- just come into my life and uproot everything. I had a life, Bruce!” Tim shouts, balling his hands into fists. His chest burns white hot. Dimly, he suspects that he might be crying.

Bruce’s face remains infuriatingly calm. Part of Tim really wants to punch it, but instead he only clenches his fists until his knuckles turn white. “I don’t know why you’re so interested in trying to help me, but I don’t need you sticking your nose into my business! There are so many other things that you could be focusing on. Gotham needs your stupid help, but you know what? I _don’t_!”

He stares Bruce down, tears running down his face. Burning hot flames fill his chest and distantly, Tim notes that he’s breathing like he just ran a marathon. It takes a moment for the weight of his words to sink in and for Tim to realize that he just yelled at Bruce Wayne.

Tim just screamed at _Batman_.

Oh, he’s so fucked.

Tim distantly registers Bruce’s mouth moving as he says something, but the words are lost to the rushing in his ears. Bruce reaches out for him and Tim flinches away without thinking. The weight of Bruce’s icy blue eyes clamp down on his chest and make it hard to breathe. _He just yelled at Bruce Wayne_.

“--deep breaths, Tim,” Bruce is saying, his words distant as if spoken underwater. “I’m not going to hurt you--”

Tim stares at him, eyes burning with tears and chest burning with fire, and bolts.

Bruce Wayne may be Batman, but Tim Drake has been frolicking around Gotham’s rooftops since he was ten years old. When he needs to be fast, he can be _fast_. Tim sprints out of the study and lets his feet guide him through the halls.

He reaches a bedroom door that part of his mind faintly registers as _mine_ , so he darts inside. The door slams behind him and Tim jumps at the noise, scanning the room for hiding places. His eyes land on the closet and Tim barely thinks before he opens his closet door and launches himself inside.

Closets are good. They’re quiet and dark and safe. Tim finds a stack of blankets in the corner of the closet and quickly burrows underneath them. If anyone sticks their head in, hopefully all they’ll see is a pile of fabric.

Tim huddles there in the dark, draped with blankets, and tries to control his breathing. He’s panting, gasping for air like he’s just run a marathon, and his heart feels like it’s trying to claw his way out of his chest. His entire body is buzzing with adrenaline.

He shouted at _Bruce_. He’s going to be so mad, or worse, disappointed. Tim’s been trying so hard to stay out of the way and to be helpful, but then he just had to go squander all of his efforts. He heaves a sob, but he feels like he’s choking. He’s a _guest_ , for crying out loud. And here he is, being a nuisance and getting in the way and _yelling at Bruce Wayne_ \--

There’s a knock on the door and Tim goes very, very still.

“Tim?” Dick’s muffled voice calls through the door. “It’s just me. Can I come in? I want to make sure that you’re okay, buddy.”

Tim presses a hand over his mouth to try to quiet the sounds of his ragged breathing but doesn’t reply.

A few moments pass and Dick says, “I’m going to come in, okay? I just want to check on you and make sure that you’re all right in there.”

The door creaks open and then closes with a soft click. Tim’s breathing sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet of the room. He squeezes his eyes shut and stays very, very still.

“Tim? Are you in there?”

The closet door slowly opens and Tim ducks his head, willing the blankets to hide him.

“There you are,” Dick says gently. “I’m going to come in and sit down, okay?”

There’s the sound of objects and clothes being brushed aside, and then Dick is sitting down with his back pressed against the wall of the closet. He’s still several feet away and sits with his hands in his lap and his legs stretched out in front of him.

“It might be a little easier to breathe if you take the blankets off your face,” Dick suggests. After a moment of hesitation, Tim wriggles out from beneath the blankets but leaves the blanket pile between him and Dick. “I can count your breaths for you. Breathe with me, okay?”

Tim struggles to rein in his breathing, but he tries to follow Dick’s instructions anyways. He’s already misbehaved enough for one day, after all. Dick patiently leads him through it and offers kind reassurances.

Eventually, Tim’s breathing calms enough that he can talk without gasping. The first thing he says is, “Bruce is going to be so mad at me.”

“He’s not mad at you,” Dick counters. “Worried, yes, but he’s worried _for_ you. I promise.”

“He thinks that--” Tim gulps down another breath and wipes away tears from his eyes, “That my parents are bad people. But they love me, I know that they love me.”

Dick pauses. “I don’t think that people are fully good or fully bad,” he says at last. “I think that we all try our best, and sometimes we can love someone but still hurt them by accident.”

Tim sniffles and wraps his arms around his knees. “I just want my life back,” he says miserably. “Why can’t everything stop being so hard?” His voice cracks on the last word as a fresh wave of tears pours down his face.

“I know,” Dick whispers sadly. “Want to come here?” He holds his arms out in open invitation and Tim is so tired and his head hurts and his chest still feels weird and he’s _weak_ and just wants someone to hug him for a bit.

Scrambling out from under the blankets, Tim crawls over to Dick and sits down next to him. Dick wraps his arms around Tim and pulls him into his chest, and Tim starts crying harder. Wow, Dick is good at giving hugs. He keeps up a steady stream of murmured reassurances and things that are soothing to listen to even if Tim isn’t really processing them.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please don’t be mad--” Tim gasps, but Dick only kisses the top of his head.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you. You’re safe here,” Dick says gently as he rubs Tim’s back. “We’re not mad at you.”

Slowly, the hot, tight feeling in Tim’s chest eases until it fades back into his usual muffled fog. His tears, too, lessen from a combination of dehydration and exhaustion until they stop completely.

“I’m tired,” Tim mumbles into Dick’s shoulder.

Dick strokes Tim’s hair. “I’ll bet. Does this sort of thing happen often?”

Tim half-shrugs. “Sometimes,” he mumbles. “Not always.”

“Okay,” Dick replies easily. “If you’re tired, you could try taking a nap. What do you think?”

Tim nods and Dick adjusts his grip on him before standing up, carrying Tim like a child. With his usual easy grace, Dick picks his way out of the closet and walks over to the bed. He gently deposits Tim on the bed and grabs a blanket to drape over him.

“You need to drink some water before you sleep,” Dick says, scrounging a glass from-- somewhere, Tim has no clue-- and padding over to the bathroom. Over the sound of the faucet running, he calls, “Do you want me to get Ace for you?”

Tim contemplates this for a moment before nodding. It feels like his brain was run over by a truck and he would really, really like a warm, fluffy dog on his bed. Realizing that Dick can’t see him, he belatedly replies, “Yes, please.”

Dick crosses the room and hands Tim the glass of water. “All right, give me a minute to find him. Drink the whole glass.”

Tim sips at the water as Dick leaves. A few minutes later, he slips back into the room with a happy-looking Ace. Ace wastes no time in hopping onto Tim’s bed and flopping down next to him. Smiling, Tim snuggles into the blanket and scratches behind Ace’s ears.

Dick takes the empty glass from his hand. “Want me to stay until you fall asleep?”

“I’ll be okay now, I think. I have Ace. Thanks, Dick,” Tim says honestly. After a moment, he adds, “Could you maybe tell Bruce that I’ll stay for a few more days before I make a more long-term decision? And I’m sorry for yelling at him.”

“I’ll let him know.” Smiling gently, Dick ruffles Tim’s hair. “And by the way, welcome to the Yelling At Bruce Club. Everyone in the house is a card-carrying member, so you’re in good company.” He leans forward and kisses Tim’s forehead. Tim makes a face but doesn’t really protest.

Dick makes his way to the door and pauses, glancing at Tim and a very comfortable Ace. “Text any of us if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay,” Tim replies as he rhythmically strokes Ace’s ears.

Still smiling, Dick slips out of the room. It takes less time than Tim would’ve thought for him to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta, [S](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolateandsilver), and for the fantastic [goldkirk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldkirk/pseuds/goldkirk) for looking over this chapter and yelling with me!!
> 
> And of course, thank you to all of you for your support!! Your comments fuel me. <3 <3


	11. your ship may be coming in (you're weak, but not giving in)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim slowly starts to adjust to a new sense of normalcy at Wayne Manor. The Wayne family tries to help him, but there are some stumbling blocks. More conversations are had, snow is played in, pictures are taken, and offers are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a slightly more tender chapter that will hopefully make up for how rough the last one was. Enjoy!
> 
> Chapter title is from A Better Son/Daughter by Rilo Kiley.
> 
>  **CWs:** panic attacks, implied depression, references to food insecurity

When Tim wakes up, he’s warm and cozy. A comforting weight presses against his side, grounding him. Tim burrows into it and is rewarded with a cold nose to his cheek for his efforts. Blinking open his eyes, he finds Ace drowsily nuzzling into him.

They stay like that for a while. Tim sneaks a hand out from under the blanket to absentmindedly pet Ace’s head. It’s nice, huddling in a bubble where he can pretend that nothing is wrong. Eventually, though, that bubble has to burst. It comes in the form of a knock on Tim’s door. He tenses immediately, watching the door carefully.

“Timbo,” Jason says from the other side of the door. “Are you awake?”

“Yes?”

“I found more of those really funny videos where people pretend like their dogs have human hands and feed them stuff at a table. Want to watch them?”

“...Yeah, come in.”

Jason steps inside, closing the door softly behind himself. He walks over to the bed and lays down on his stomach next to Tim. “Check this out,” he says, holding out his phone.

They watch cute animal YouTube videos together on Tim’s bed for a while. Jason occasionally bumps their shoulders together or nudges Tim’s leg with his foot when something particularly funny happens. Eventually, he brings his homework into Tim’s room and works at his desk while Tim works on his bed. Having someone else in the room while he studies is still kind of weird, but Tim finds that he doesn’t mind it too much.

* * *

“Did somebody order room service?” Dick asks, nudging open the door with his foot. He sweeps in with several bowls balanced on a platter on his arm.

“Oh, is that dinner?” Jason asks curiously from his seat at the desk.

Dick nods and distributes the bowls before sitting on the floor with his own. “Yep! I thought that you might want some company. Also, I haven’t annoyed Jason enough today. I have a quota to meet, you know. It’s my duty as your big brother to make sure that somebody pesters you.”

Tim peers at his bowl. It looks like some form of burrito bowl with leafy greens thrown in and it smells delicious. He takes a hesitant bite-- it’s pretty good. Ace glances at the bowl and sniffs the air but to Tim’s surprise, he doesn’t try to eat it.

“Be careful where you put your bowl. If it’s left unattended, Ace might get into it,” Dick warns, leaning back against Tim’s bed. “Otherwise, it should be safe. Ace is a good boy.” Ace’s ears prick up at the sound of his name, but he keeps his head on his paws.

“Some of his ESA and therapy dog training involved teaching him to leave your food alone,” Jason adds around a mouthful of rice.

“Huh,” Tim says.

“He’s a very good boy,” Dick adds. “Aren’t you, Ace? Who’s a good boy?”

Ace’s tail thumps against the bed. Tim scratches behind his ears and his tail wags even faster.

* * *

After dinner, Dick leaves for Blüdhaven. The entire Wayne household plus Tim assembles by the front door for the usual sendoff. Bruce keeps a careful distance from Tim, but he smiles gently at Tim whenever Bruce catches him looking.

As Dick’s car pulls out of the driveway and everyone begins to disperse, Bruce materializes next to Tim. “Tim, could I have a word with you? You’re not in trouble, I promise.” 

“Okay,” Tim agrees, tensing. Is Bruce going to lecture him?

Bruce takes a seat on one of the fancy sofas in the foyer. Tim sits next to him and stares at the ground, his feet dangling just above the fancy marble floor.

“I’m sorry if I frightened you earlier,” Bruce says gently. Startled, Tim looks up. Why is Bruce apologizing? Tim should be the person saying sorry. “I really want you to feel safe here and for you to feel comfortable talking to me-- to any of us.”

Tim blinks at Bruce, still surprised, before his gaze drifts down to his feet. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to make you mad, I just--” Embarrassingly, his voice chooses that moment to crack. He swallows and looks up at Bruce. “My parents love me,” he says quietly, desperately. “They do. They’re trying their best. They just have a lot to deal with, is all.”

Bruce places a hand on Tim’s knee. “Everyone gets upset sometimes, Tim. It’s not your fault. I promise that I’m not mad at you.” His voice is gentle, soothing. “You deserve to feel safe and loved. No matter what happens, I’m always going to be here for you. We all want to help you.”

Nodding, Tim rubs at his eyes. “I just-- I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he mumbles.

Placing a hand on Tim’s shoulder, Bruce gently pulls him in for a hug. “A lot has happened in your life recently. It’s understandable that you were upset.” Tim makes a noise of disagreement but leans into Bruce anyways. “I’m still here for you, Tim. We all are and nothing will change that. No matter what happens, we’re here to help.” With his other hand, he starts lightly stroking Tim’s hair. “I just want to make sure that you’re okay. I want you to be comfortable telling me things if you need to.”

Tim nods against Bruce’s chest. Bruce holds him for a while longer, still soothingly petting Tim’s hair. With his ear pressed to Bruce’s chest, he can hear the rhythmic _thump thump thump_ of Bruce’s heartbeat, calm and steady. Finally, Bruce releases Tim, but not before pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“I already told Dick, but I can stay here for a few days while I decide what to do afterwards,” Tim says, swinging his feet in the air like a child.

He can tell that it’s not the answer Bruce wanted to hear, but he nods nonetheless. “Okay,” Bruce replies, one hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. We would love for you to stay with us, Tim.”

“I know,” Tim says quietly.

Bruce pulls him in for a brief one-armed hug. Tim allows it for a few moments before pulling away, Bruce’s arm falling away obligingly.

“I should go do homework,” Tim says, picking at his sleeve. He stands up, briefly meeting Bruce’s eyes. “Thank you,” he mumbles, “For everything.”

“Of course, sport.” Bruce smiles gently and pats his shoulder, standing up too. “If you need me, I’ll be in the den.”

Tim nods and shuffles upstairs. He can feel the weight of Bruce’s gaze on him before he disappears down the hallway and into his room.

* * *

The numbness comes back like a gray fog rolling through his head. Tim drags himself out of bed, to and from school, and to his gymnastics and self-defense classes. However, instead of shuffling around the eerily empty Drake Manor like a ghost, he’s in a house full of life and noise.

Alfred lets Tim do his homework at the kitchen island while he cooks. Jason chats with him as they do homework and randomly knocks on his door to show him random funny things that he found on the internet. Sometimes, Bruce drives them to school or he leaves work early to pick them up. He likes wandering in when Jason and Tim are hanging out and to ask about their day or inquire about whichever video game they’re playing at the moment.

(Bruce knows a lot about video games. It’s a side effect of raising teenagers, he explains, but Tim isn’t so sure. Still, it’s kind of fun when Bruce sits down with them and helps them build Wayne Manor in Minecraft.)

He’s still tired all the time, but it’s a little bit easier with people around. At least Tim doesn’t have to cook for himself or run errands. That week, he ends up sleeping a lot. Sometimes Alfred has to wake him up by opening the curtains and turning on the lights to make sure that he’s not late for school. He takes lots of naps but gives Jason permission to wake him up so he doesn’t sleep through dinner and run out of time to do homework.

Everything feels kind of muffled most of the time, but it’s not the worst. He’ll manage.

* * *

On Thursday evening, Bruce knocks on Tim’s doorframe. “Hey, sport. Do you have a minute?”

Tim glances up from his homework, grip on his pencil tightening. “Yeah. Is something wrong?” he asks casually as alarm bells go off in his head.

Bruce steps into the room, closing the door softly behind himself. “Nothing’s wrong. I wanted to check in with you about staying here until your parents return from their trip. Have they told you when they’re coming back yet?”

“Oh, okay.” Tim pushes his desk chair back so he’s facing Bruce and tries not to fidget. “Um. I haven’t heard from them yet.”

“That’s okay,” Bruce says soothingly. “We’ll figure it out. Have you thought more about staying here for a while?”

He shrugs and picks at the edge of his eraser. “A little. I’ll stay for a few more days, I guess. It’s just all really--” Tim makes an expansive hand gesture as he struggles for words.

“It’s a big change?” Bruce suggests gently.

Tim slumps. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Understandable. We’re happy for you to stay here for as long as you want.” Bruce wanders closer and peers at the papers on Tim’s desk. “What are you working on?”

“Algebra. I have a test coming up and I’m trying to study extra hard since I didn’t do as well on the last one.”

“Well, let me know if you need any help, all right?” He pats Tim’s shoulder. This time, Tim barely tenses at all. “We should do something fun after you take your test so you have something to look forward to.”

Tim blinks. “But what if the test goes badly?”

“Then we’ll do something fun anyways to cheer you up,” Bruce replies easily. “You should think about what you want to do, okay? Let me know when you decide on something.”

Tim watches Bruce’s face. He’s smiling genially and Tim can’t detect anything off-- it doesn’t look like there’s any trick. Relaxing somewhat, he nods. “Okay, I’ll think of something.”

Bruce pats Tim’s shoulder. “Good. I’m going to go check on Jason. Do you want the door open or closed?”

“Closed, please,” Tim requests.

Bruce nods and closes the door with a quiet click on his way out, leaving Tim to his work.

* * *

Saturday morning rolls around and Tim does _not_ want to leave his bed. The outside world is cold and cruel-- and did he mention cold?-- but his bed is warm. He feels like his body is buzzing with static as he lays unmoving under the covers. Doing things is hard and he just wants to sleep.

Eventually, he rolls over and pulls out his phone. He mindlessly scrolls through social media and news alerts for a bit; apparently, Batman and Robin went a few rounds with Killer Croc last night. Tim is content to lie there and let the mattress swallow him, but as usual, the universe conspires against him.

There’s a loud knock on his door. Hey, that rhythm is familiar--

“Do you wanna build a snowman?” Dick sings through the door.

“He’s gonna keep singing unless you let us in,” Jason calls.

“Come on, let’s go and play!” Dick continues, closer to yelling than singing. “I never see you anymore, come out the door--”

Tim groans and rolls onto his stomach, glaring at the door. “You can come in,” he shouts.

The door swings open and Jason and Dick come rushing in. Dick makes a beeline for Tim’s bed and flops down next to him. “Bruce says that I need to get out my extra energy. Let’s go outside!”

“It’s snowing,” Jason adds, laying down on Tim’s other side.

Tim sighs and plants his face in his pillow. “I’m tired.”

“When did you go to bed?” He can practically hear the frown in Jason’s voice.

“Midnight, maybe?”

“It’s eleven in the morning. If you stay in bed for longer, you’ll just feel more tired. Trust me,” Jason replies.

Dick is nudges Tim’s legs with what feels like a knee. “You won’t even have to move, I promise. We can put you in a sled and I’ll pull you.”

Jason pokes his shoulder. “All you have to do is get ready. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“Fine,” Tim mumbles, rolling over onto his back. “Get out so I can get dressed.”

They dart outside obediently, shutting the door behind them.

“You have fifteen minutes!” Jason shouts through the door.

Tim sighs and takes a moment to summon the mental energy to sit up.

Fourteen minutes later, he’s brushing his hair when there’s another knock on the door. After a moment, Dick and Jason come barreling in, this time with their arms full of snow gear. They’re both dressed in warm-looking clothes-- Tim doesn’t know how they’re not overheating since they’re indoors.

“Put these on,” Dick orders, tossing a pair of wool socks and a warm-looking parka at Tim.

Jason produces a granola bar out of seemingly nowhere and shoves it at Tim. “Eat this, you need food.”

When Tim hesitates, Dick ushers him over to the bed and makes him sit down. Jason unwraps the granola bar and pushes it towards Tim’s mouth. Together, they work with disturbing efficiency to shove Tim into snow clothes as he munches on the granola bar. They pull Dick’s old snow pants over Tim’s jeans (“Your pants will get soaked if you’re sitting down and then your butt will freeze,” Jason points out) and stuff him into what Tim suspects is Jason’s old parka.

After a few minutes, Tim is pretty sure that he could run around the South Pole during the winter and be perfectly fine. Satisfied, Jason turns around and kneels in front of Tim.

“I’ll give you a piggyback ride outside,” he offers.

Tim obligingly wraps his arms around Jason’s neck and hops on. It’s a little bit awkward with their bulky snow clothes, but they make it work. Jason carries Tim through the halls of the Manor. When they get outside, Tim blinks and stares. Somehow, the manor’s grounds were blanketed with several inches of snow overnight.

“Whoah,” Tim says, staring at the vast sea of white in front of him.

Dick appears a moment later, sled in hand. He sets it on the ground in front of Jason and pulls on his gloves before picking up the rope attached to the sled. “All aboard the Grayson express!” He hollers.

Snickering, Jason kneels so Tim can climb into the sled.

“Hold on tight,” Dick advises him before raising his voice again. “First stop, over there!” He points at some random spot in the distance before he takes off, pulling the sled behind him.

Tim grips the sides of the sled, laughing as Dick bounds through the snow. It’s a little bit hard to run through the snow while wearing snowboots, but Dick makes a good effort. He runs around for a bit, hauling Tim and the sled behind him, before jogging back to Jason.

“Were you recording that?” Dick asks, barely out of breath.

Jason smiles and lowers his phone. “I thought Barbara might want to see,” he says sweetly.

Dick narrows his eyes and unceremoniously tackles Jason into the snow. Cackling, Jason tosses a handful of snow into Dick’s face. Some of it must have gone down Dick’s jacket because he yelps, shaking his head and sending snow flying everywhere.

“Oh, it’s _on_ ,” Dick announces.

From there, they devolve into a bizarre combination of play-fighting and a snowball fight. Tim idly packs some snow into snowballs as he watches them. They mostly seem content to knock the other into the snow and occasionally toss around handfuls of snow, but this snow is pretty good for packing. It would be a shame to let that go to waste.

Tim slides out of the sled and kneels next to his small cache of snowballs. He waits for Dick and Jason to get distracted before he strikes, hitting Dick squarely between the shoulder blades with a snowball.

Dick whirls around to look at Tim, providing Jason with the perfect opportunity to shove some snow down his coat. “Fuck, that’s _cold--_ ” he swears as Jason dances away, laughing.

Jason darts over to Tim and extends one fist. “Alliance?”

Tim nods and bumps his fist against Jason’s. “Let’s crush him.”

Together, he and Jason make it their mission to pelt Dick with as many snowballs as possible. Dick puts up a good fight, but eventually he collapses spread-eagled on the ground.

“I surrender, I surrender!” he announces as Tim creeps up, snowball in hand.

Tim unceremoniously drops the snowball on Dick’s chest as Jason stands up, dropping a half-formed snowball. He claps Tim on the shoulder before helping Dick onto his feet. “Nice job, Timbo.”

“Thank you,” Tim replies. “Dumping an armful of snow on Dick from behind was a stroke of genius.”

Jason laughs and knocks their shoulders together playfully. “Come on, let’s ask Alfred for hot chocolate.”

Twenty minutes later, they’re all bundled in warm blankets in the den with mugs of hot chocolate in hand. Their snow clothes are neatly arranged in front of the fire crackles merrily in the fireplace so they can dry.

“Want to watch Avatar the Last Airbender?” Dick suggests, picking up the remote.

“I don’t think I’ve seen that,” Tim says. “Is that good?”

“Is it good?” Dick gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest as if he was physically wounded. “ _Is it good?_ That’s it, we’re watching Avatar.”

* * *

Avatar the Last Airbender, as it turns out, is really good. They make it through several episodes of the first season before Jason and Tim have to go do homework. Dick promises that they can binge it together later, preferably with more snacks. Tim smiles and nods.

He’s looking forward to it.

* * *

Tim finds Bruce looking over some papers in his study, a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on his nose. He tries to be quiet and wait for Bruce to finish working, but Tim’s plans are foiled when Bruce glances up as soon as Tim enters the room.

“Hi, Tim,” he says warmly. “How are you doing? I saw you, Dick, and Jason playing in the snow earlier.”

Taking a step closer to Bruce’s desk, Tim nods. “I’m good. We had a lot of fun. They put me in a sled and Dick dragged me around for a while.”

“Nice job in the snowball fight, by the way. You’re a good snowball strategist,” Bruce says, smiling.

The tips of Tim’s ears go red at the compliment and he smiles back, toying with the edge of his sleeve. “Thanks. I, um, wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Okay,” Bruce replies evenly, stepping out from around the desk and sitting in one of the couches next to it. He pats the seat next to him and Tim shuffles over so he can sit next to Bruce. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier. About staying here until my parents get back, I mean.” Tim fiddles with the hem of his shirt and brushes off some imaginary dirt. “I think it might be a good idea. It sounds like we’re supposed to get a lot of snow this winter, so it might get hard to bike to school.” In a quieter voice, he adds, “And it’s kinda nice being here with you guys.”

Bruce smiles and reaches out to pat Tim’s shoulder. “We love having you here,” he says earnestly. Tim leans into the touch and nods. After a moment, Bruce asks, “Are you still concerned about your parents getting angry if you stay here?”

“Not really? I mean…” Tim’s smile falls and he stares at his hands. “They didn’t really mind one way or another last time I stayed here. The time that they got mad was when I asked them if I could come hang out over here after doing badly on a test earlier that week.”

“What do you mean by mad?” Bruce asks gently.

He shrugs halfheartedly. “Yelling, and stuff.” His fingers twitch as he stops his hand from touching the mostly faded bruise on his face. “They get mad if I don’t listen or if I get a bad grade or something. Sometimes it feels like-- like they’re mad at something else, or mad at each other, and then they get mad at me. And I try to be good, I swear, but then they get mad and--” To his dismay, his eyes fill with tears that he has trouble willing away.

“Shhh, it’s not your fault,” Bruce murmurs, rubbing Tim’s back. “I know you’re a good kid, I believe you.”

Tim’s mouth speaks without his permission. “It feels like they’re always mad. Or-- or they fight, and then they get mad at me.” He hunches his shoulders and rubs at his eyes. “I just want them to come home so we can be a real family. But then they come home and they fight and--” His voice cracks.

Now he’s truly crying, tears pouring down his face. Bruce leans over and pulls Tim into a hug. “It’s okay, Tim, I’ve got you. It’s not your fault.”

Tim’s shoulders shake as he cries into Bruce’s shirt, desperately clutching his arms like he might disappear. Bruce keeps rubbing Tim’s back and talking in a soothing voice even if Tim can’t quite process what he’s saying.

Eventually, his tears subside and fatigue takes its place. Still, Tim finds himself loathe to pull away from the hug just yet.

“Sorry I cried all over your shirt,” he croaks.

“I can get a new shirt. My main concern is whether you’re feeling better.”

“Yeah.” He sits up fully, rubbing at his eyes. “A little, I think.”

“Good.” Bruce kisses the top of Tim’s head. “Want me to take you back to your room?” Tim nods and Bruce waits for him to finish rubbing his eyes before he scoops Tim into his arms. Carrying him like a child, Bruce tucks Tim’s head under his chin. It’s kind of nice, honestly, so Tim doesn’t protest too much and simply lets Bruce carry him back to his room.

Expertly shifting Tim into one arm, Bruce opens the door and steps into Tim’s room. He carefully deposits Tim on his bed and sits down on the edge of the mattress.

“Thanks,” Tim says, curling up on top of his blankets.

“Thank you for trusting me,” Bruce replies, stroking Tim’s hair. “We’ll take care of you, okay? I promise.”

Tim nods. “I know,” he mumbles sleepily and makes grabby hands at the blanket at the foot of the bed.

Chuckling, Bruce drapes the blanket over Tim. He kisses Tim’s forehead before standing up. “Have a good nap.” Still smiling, Bruce pauses in the doorway before shutting the door behind himself.

* * *

On Sunday evening, the entire Wayne household assembles at the kitchen table, Tim included. Alfred stands in front of the massive whiteboard on the wall, dry erase marker in hand. The days of the week are spelled out in Alfred’s neat handwriting. Below, everyone is assigned a row.

“What do you have planned this week, Master Jason?” Alfred inquires.

“Uh, let me think. I have an English essay due on Tuesday, a biology quiz on Thursday.… My art teacher wanted me to meet her before school to go over my art project on Wednesday. Oh, and book club on its usual day.” Jason ticks each other off on his fingers. “That should be everything.”

Alfred makes a note of each activity in Jason’s row. “Master Dick?”

Dick shrugs, one leg thrown over the arm of his chair. “I’ll be back here on Saturday, not Friday like usual. Otherwise, I don’t have much planned.”

Nodding, Alfred jots a note on Dick’s Saturday section. “Let me see, Master Bruce already emailed me his schedule…. Master Tim, what does your schedule look like this week?”

“I have an algebra test on Wednesday and a history paper that I have to turn in by Thursday, but I’m mostly finished with it,” Tim reports. “Otherwise, I have my usual gymnastics and self-defense classes on Wednesday afternoon and book club on Thursday.”

“Oh, don’t forget about the field trip permission slips,” Jason adds. “We’re supposed to turn those in by Friday.”

“A field trip?” Bruce asks curiously. “Where are you going?”

“The Gotham museum of fine art,” Jason replies, nudging Dick’s foot off the arm of his chair and pushing it back to Dick’s own chair. “It’s sometime in December, I think?”

“December fifth, I think,” Tim corrects. “The whole school is going.”

“So you’re cramming, what, three hundred bored adolescents into an art museum? That’ll be interesting,” Dick says as he pokes Jason’s arm with his foot. “Jay will probably like it, anyhow. He’s a big nerd.”

Jason frowns at him and pokes Dick’s foot back. “Stop being smug just because you graduated,” he grouses.

“A field trip to an art museum sounds fun,” Tim muses.

“You should take your camera,” Jason suggests. “I bet that there’s a bunch of cool stuff that you could take pictures of.”

“Good idea, Jay,” Bruce says before turning to Tim. “Do you need someone to sign your permission slip for you?”

Tim half-shrugs. “I’ll be okay.”

There’s a beat of silence as Bruce regards Tim carefully. Finally, he says, “...Tim, have you been forging your parents’ signatures on your permission slips?”

Ah, shit. Busted.

“It’s not forgery if the other person gives you permission to sign for them,” he deflects. 

“And have you been able to contact your parents to obtain their permission?” Bruce replies evenly.

Tim falls silent and breaks eye contact, staring at the table instead. With a sigh, Bruce leans over and gently pats Tim’s shoulder. “I can sign it for you. You’re not in trouble, but in the future, how about you bring your permission slips to me?”

Briefly glancing up, Tim peeks at Bruce’s expression and finds it more concerned than upset. He nods a little and goes back to staring at the table. Bruce keeps rubbing his shoulder reassuringly for another moment before he retracts his hand. “A field trip does sound like fun,” he says. “Just try to avoid getting kidnapped, okay?” 

“But Bruce,” Jason whines, “I love getting kidnapped! How could you take away one of the greatest joys in my life?”

“Oh, how could I do this to you? I am a cruel father, trying to keep you from getting kidnapped,” Bruce deadpans. Expression unchanging, he picks up the whiteboard’s eraser and lightly tosses it at Jason’s shoulder. It bounces off his arm, but Jason just laughs and throws it back at Bruce.

* * *

After everyone else leaves the kitchen, Tim makes sure to grab a handful of granola bars. He can use them once he’s able to find a way to sneak out of Wayne Manor into Gotham, but they’ll also make for a good food stash just in case he needs to hide in his room for whatever reason. Since he’s apparently staying with the Waynes for a while, he might as well start a food stash here in addition to the one in his room in Drake Manor.

After a moment of consideration, Tim grabs an unopened jar of peanut butter too. Protein is always good. He shoves his bounty into his backpack and retreats to his room.

Where would be a good place to hide everything? He eventually settles on stashing his hoard under a blanket in the box at the back of his closet. Hopefully, nobody will find it there.

* * *

Tim feels bad lying to Jason. Really, he does. Jason is his friend and he’s been nothing but nice to Tim except for maybe those times when he used a blue shell on Tim in Mario Kart, but Tim is maybe willing to let that slide. Anyways. He doesn’t want to lie to Jason, but it will look suspicious if Gotham’s Shadow is inactive whenever he stays at Wayne Manor. Tim has to find a way to sneak out of the manor without tripping one of Bruce’s many alarms.

So, that’s where Jason comes in.

They’re sitting on Jason’s bed with Jason sprawled out on his stomach as Tim flips through a treatise on criminal justice. Tim slips a bookmark between the pages and closes the book. “Hey, Jay? Could you maybe do me a favor?”

Jason looks up from his nintendo switch. “Yeah, what’s up?”

He stares down at Jason’s dark blue bedspread and toys with the fabric for a moment, gathering his thoughts before he speaks. “Back when I was home, I liked climbing onto the roof and stargazing whenever I was having a bad day. I haven’t done it here yet, though, and I kind of want to. So, I was wondering… do you know how to get onto the roof?” Tim glances up at Jason and finds his sympathetic gaze. “I don’t want to worry Bruce whenever I’m having a bad day or something, but I really want to see the stars again.”

Eyes softening, Jason sets down his switch. “Yeah, of course I’ll show you! Just promise me that you’ll be careful, okay? The roof is pretty sturdy, but I don’t want you getting injured.”

“I’ll be careful,” Tim promises. It’s not technically a full lie-- as Gotham’s Shadow, he does try to be pretty careful. And he will actually be stargazing, just not from the roof of Wayne Manor.

Jason pats Tim on the shoulder and rolls off the bed, heading towards the window. “All right. Come over here and I’ll show you how to disable the alarms on the roof.”

* * *

That night, Tim climbs out of the window and onto the roof of Wayne Manor. From there, he shimmies down a narrow drainage pipe that likely couldn’t hold the weight of anyone larger than a thirteen year old and grabs the limb of an oak tree. He climbs to the branch and shimmies closer to the trunk of the tree before he can safely climb down.

(Strictly speaking, his descent is best described as a controlled fall, but that’s okay. He has a length of rope in his backpack that he can use to climb back up the tree.)

From there, Tim darts across the manor’s grounds, careful to stay out of sight, and crosses over onto the Drakes’ property. After that, it’s smooth sailing. He takes his usual route into Gotham, traveling first by foot on the roads and then by rooftop.

When he arrives at one of his usual stakeout spots by the dock, Tim takes a moment to lay down and stare up at the sky. With the cold concrete at his back, the wind whistling in his ears, and a smattering of stars peeking out from behind Gotham’s ever-present fog, Tim almost feels at home.

* * *

Tim quickly finds himself falling into a familiar routine. When he can, he slinks around Wayne Manor, running his hands over the walls to check for hidden doors. Batman’s headquarters has to be around here somewhere, but to Tim’s dismay, he’s unable to locate any secret rooms. Maybe it’s hidden elsewhere on the grounds? Between school, extracurriculars, and hanging out with Jason and occasionally Dick, his days stay relatively the same.

The real fun, however, starts at night.

He doesn’t sneak into Gotham every night; that would be too suspicious. Instead, he goes out two, maybe three times every week. If he could, he would go more frequently, but the chances of Bruce discovering his empty bed increase the more that he leaves.

So, Tim is careful. He tries to only work as Gotham’s Shadow on nights that Batman is likely to be working. Usually, that’s Friday and Saturday nights since they aren’t school nights and Batman can take Robin with him. Occasionally, Jason will mention something about going to bed early on a weekday and Robin will show up in Gotham that night. Tim ventures into Gotham on those nights too, but he’s careful to keep his distance from the Bats. Now that they know him well, it would be easy for them to identify him even when he keeps him hood down and consciously adds more of a Gotham lilt to his words.

He has to leave Gotham earlier than he’d like to avoid Bruce returning to the manor and finding Tim missing. The precaution is irritating but necessary. Tim does his work, takes his photos, and emails his analyses to Commissioner Gordon. He wishes that he could do more, but he’s limited by his situation and Bruce’s desire to make sure that everyone in the house is still breathing.

* * *

One night, Tim’s phone rings as he’s almost done with the long trek from Gotham back to Wayne Manor. His heart rate shoots up when he checks the caller ID and finds the name _Bruce Wayne_ staring back at him.

Oh, shit. This can’t be good.

Tim accepts the call and holds his phone up to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hi, chum.” The phone’s speaker turns Bruce’s voice slightly tinny. Tim wishes that he could see Bruce’s face to gauge his mood. “Are you all right? I was checking in on all of you before I turned in for the night, but you weren’t in your room and I couldn’t find you.”

“Oh,” Tim says as he searches for an excuse. “Uh, about that. I’m fine, I just--” he pauses and takes a deep breath as he continues walking. “I kind of… wanted to go back to my house for a night, you know?”

The lie clings to his teeth and lays sticky on his tongue. There’s a beat of silence and Tim can barely breathe until Bruce replies, “Thanks for letting me know, sport. You know, if you want to visit your house for a while, we’d be happy to drive you over. I don’t want to make you walk all the way over.”

Tim resists the urge to laugh. The mile between Drake Manor and Wayne Manor pales in comparison to the distance he travels as Gotham’s Shadow. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I know that things have been tumultuous for you lately, but if you need to talk about it, I’m always here for you. The same goes for all of us,” Bruce continues, concern lacing his voice.

Tim makes a noncommittal noise and keeps walking. In the distance, he can just barely see the familiar outline of Drake Manor.

“Do you know when you’re planning on coming back to Wayne Manor?”

“Uh,” Tim says intelligently. If Bruce is waiting for him and Tim crawls in through his window in his full Gotham’s Shadow outfit, that might raise some questions.

“I suppose it’s all right if you want to stay the night alone at your house.” Bruce sounds a little hesitant, but he doesn’t sound outright angry. That’s probably good, right? “We can come pick you up before breakfast tomorrow morning and then drive you and Jay to school. How does that sound?”

“That sounds good,” Tim replies. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“It was bound to happen eventually. Besides, my kids have given me worse scares than this,” Bruce says fondly. “But in the future, if you’re planning on going back to your house for a while, can you let us know?”

Tim nods before remembering that Bruce can’t see him. “I’ll do that. And I’m still really sorry.”

“It’s all right, sport. Do you need anything before you go to sleep? We could bring over some of your things.”

“No, I should be okay. I don’t want to make you come all the way over here just for me.”

“Tim,” Bruce says gently. “It would be no trouble. I’d sleep better knowing that you have everything you need.”

Biting his lip, Tim stares at the ground as he walks. “I’ll be okay,” he repeats. “Thank you.”

There’s a pause and then Bruce replies, “Okay, but call me at any time if you need anything. All right?”

“All right.”

“Well, I’ll let you get to bed. It’s getting late and it’s a school night,” Bruce points out. “Good night, Tim. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Bruce,” Tim replies.

He waits for Bruce to hang up the call before slipping his phone back into his pocket and finishing the walk back to Drake Manor. When he slips through the front door, the house is as still and silent as always. Tim heads upstairs and peels off all of his Gotham’s Shadow gear, tossing his dirty clothes into his hamper.

His bed is more uncomfortable than he remembers and when he turns off the light, darkness fills his room with unfamiliar shapes. Has he really gotten so used to sleeping at Wayne Manor? Tim tugs his blankets up to his chin and stubbornly closes his eyes. Sleep finds him soon enough.

* * *

It’s nerve-wracking to hide his excursions into Gotham from the Waynes, but it’s also kind of fun to live with them while knowing _their_ big, batty secret. Sometimes, Bruce moves a little too stiffly at breakfast or Jason has mysterious bruises that he explains away as the results of tripping over something.

Once, Tim sleepily stumbles into the kitchen and finds Bruce icing a black eye.

“Cooking incident,” Bruce mutters, eyes fixed on something in the distance as he takes a sip of his coffee.

It’s a pretty plausible explanation. Well, at least he’s self-aware.

Tim finds that he likes living at Wayne Manor. Everything still feels sort of foggy and muffled, but he feels less like a ghost drifting through the halls. He’s grounded by Bruce ruffling his hair and calling him “sport”, by doing homework on the floor of the den with Jay, by lazy afternoons spent sprawled on Dick’s bed as he shows Tim and Jason memes, by Alfred’s watchful eyes and reassuring words when Tim freaks out one evening over a math problem.

His head might not be the best, but it’s better than it was. For now, that has to be enough.

* * *

Unfortunately, “better” doesn’t mean that all of Tim’s problems go away.

* * *

Tim runs for his life through the halls of Gotham Academy. Each footstep echoes through the empty halls like a slap. The building, formidable in the daylight, has morphed into something ominous at night. Shadows flicker in the corners of his eyes, grabbing him like hands, but Tim pushes past them.

What was he doing here, again? He’s not in his uniform. There’s something chasing him but for the life of him, he can’t remember what. All he knows is that he can’t be caught.

Tim skids around a corner and sprints down the hall, arms pumping. Behind him, something crashes but Tim keeps going. No time to see what his pursuer knocked over.

The thing is getting closer; he needs to hide. Tim takes a left and runs into the math hallway. All of the doors are closed except for one: his algebra classroom. He ducks inside.

Without its usual fluorescent lighting, the classroom is eerily dark. There’s another noise down the hallway, a _pop_ like something burst and then a gross-sounding _crack_. He really, really needs to hide or it’s going to catch him and then who knows what will happen? Breathing like he just ran a marathon, Tim starts tiptoeing towards the teacher’s desk.

There’s something behind him. The only warning Tim gets is the shadows behind him shifting before a hand lands on his shoulder.

Tim _screams_ and--

There’s something wrapped around his legs and he thrashes in an attempt to free himself. It feels like there’s something squeezing his chest too and he presses his hands against his chest but there’s nothing squeezing him, so why can’t he breathe?

“Breathe with me, Tim--” Someone is saying, but they sound far away. They say some other things, but it’s hard to pay attention to what they’re saying when it feels like he’s literally dying.

A gentle pressure pushes him to curl up, his head pressed to his knees. Something starts rubbing his back and Tim initially recoils before relaxing into the touch. It feels safe, somehow, so he focuses on trying to breathe as his heartbeat thunders in his ears.

Eventually, he recognizes the voice as Bruce’s. “--deep breaths, you’re safe, I’ve got you,” Bruce repeats calmly as he rubs circles into Tim’s shaking shoulders.

“Bad dream,” Tim manages to gasp, but Bruce shushes him and keeps rubbing his back.

“I know, buddy. We can talk about it later. For now, focus on breathing, okay?”

Tim nods jerkily as Bruce walks him through counting his breaths. Slowly but surely, his breathing begins to even and the weird rushing in his head subsides. It leaves Tim shaking, but alive. He slumps against Bruce’s chest, face wet with tears, as Bruce kisses the top of your head. At some point, Tim ended up sitting between Bruce’s legs. 

“There you go, I’ve got you,” Bruce murmurs, wrapping Tim in a loose hug. It’s really nice, honestly, and Tim is too tired and jittery to stop himself from leaning into the hug. “You’re safe,” he repeats.

Once Tim feels reasonably confident that he won’t burst into tears again if he speaks, he rasps, “That sucked.”

Behind him, Bruce’s chest shakes as he chuckles. “Yes, I’d imagine that it did. Panic attacks aren’t fun.” He starts stroking Tim’s hair. It’s really nice, so Tim leans into his hand.

“I had-- a bad dream,” Tim says haltingly. “I was in Gotham Academy and it was nighttime, so nobody else was there and--” He takes a deep breath as Bruce murmurs something soothing. Tears gather in his eyes again, but he’s too tired to start truly crying again. “Something was chasing me. I don’t know what, but I kept running and it kept following me. I ran into-- my algebra classroom and I was going to hide, but--” He curls his fingers into the fabric of his pajama pants, “It caught me.” His voice cracks and then he’s crying again, but it’s much more subdued than the first time.

Bruce continues to pet his hair and murmur reassurances until Tim’s tears slow.

“Sorry,” he chokes out, but Bruce only shakes his head and kisses Tim’s forehead.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Thank you for trusting me, Tim.” He says gently. “That sounds very scary.”

Tim nods a little and burrows more into Bruce’s arms, which Bruce patiently allows.

For a while, the room is quiet except for Tim’s slightly ragged breathing and the rasp of Bruce’s hand in his hair. Eventually, Bruce breaks the silence. “Tim, when was the last time that you took a day off of school?”

Tim frowns. “Uh. I can’t remember.”

Bruce hums and falls quiet for a moment. “Why don’t you and I both take the day off tomorrow? It sounds like you had a stress dream and I think you could use the break. We can do whatever you want. What do you think?”

“Oh.” Tim blinks. That sounds kind of nice, actually, but-- “What about my homework and class notes? And I need an adult to call the school or I’ll get an unexcused absence.”

“In the morning, how about you email your teachers and ask for copies of their class notes. Jay can pick up your homework for you and I’ll take care of the rest. Don’t worry about the logistics, all right?” Bruce keeps petting Tim’s hair soothingly, voice calm and steady. In the dark room, moonlight pooling on the floor, Bruce is in his element.

“Okay,” Tim whispers.

Bruce kisses Tim’s forehead again. “Do you want to try falling back asleep?”

“I can try. But...” he trails off, unable to ask the question.

“Want me to stay until you fall asleep?” Bruce asks gently.

Tim nods. “That would be nice. Thank you,” he says quietly, ducking his head.

It’s too dark to see Bruce smiling, but it radiates off of him anyways. Bruce lets go of Tim and stands up to drag him desk chair over to the bed. Tim lays back down and pulls his covers up to his chin. Wordlessly, Bruce extends one hand and Tim takes it.

Bruce gives his hand a soft squeeze. “Try to sleep, okay? I’ll be here.”

Tim nods and snuggles into his pillow. Sleep is slow to arrive, but he does his best. He makes it there, eventually.

* * *

The next day, Tim sleeps in until nine. Alfred lets him and Bruce eat their breakfast of pancakes and chopped fruit in the den as they watch episodes of iCarly. Bruce has coffee and some sort of green smoothie that, for something that Alfred made, looks a little bit gross. (Of course, he doesn’t voice that thought. It would be kind of rude.)

Before lunch, Bruce helps him email all of his teachers to ask for copies of their lecture notes. Tim also texts Jason to let him know which classrooms he needs to drop by after school so he can pick up Tim’s homework.

Lunch is grilled cheese and tomato soup. Alfred sits down with them for a few hours to watch a history channel documentary on the Ice Age. He stays for most of a second documentary about the history of the world before he has to leave to pick up Jason.

“You guys are nerds,” Jason announces as he strides into the den with Ace hot on his heels. He glances at the television and pauses. “Is that a documentary on the plausibility of Star Trek?”

“Yep,” Tim says happily, tossing another piece of popcorn into his mouth. “It was made pre-first contact, so it’s a little old but still pretty cool.”

“Huh, nice,” Jason says, still watching the screen. A moment later, he’s dropped his backpack next to the couch and plopped down next to Tim. Ace curls up on Tim’s feet with a contented sigh that indicates he won’t be moving from that spot for a while.

They watch the rest of the documentary with Bruce’s arm draped across the back of the sofa and Jason’s knee pressed against Tim’s. When Tim and Jason leave to go do homework, Tim’s room feels too cold and empty. However, the feeling only lasts for a few moments because Jason knocks on his open door, his backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Is it okay if I do my homework here?” Jason asks.

Tim nods. They spend the rest of the afternoon working amongst the sound of pages turning and Jason’s music softly thumping from his headphones.

* * *

Before he knows it, late November rolls around and suddenly, it’s Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving at Wayne Manor isn’t an extremely elaborate affair. A week prior, Bruce emails the family a reading list on the colonist narrative of Thanksgiving. Alfred makes a pot roast with green beans and mashed potatoes for dinner, which isn’t an unusual dinner for the Wayne household. Jason decides to make pies for dessert and he ropes Tim into helping him decorate them.

The most unusual thing is how Dick shows up on Wednesday instead of Friday with a duffel bag over his shoulder.

“I’ve been told that I’ve been working too hard and need to take some time off,” he says with a guilty grin. Bruce just hugs him and beckons him inside.

It’s been a few years since Tim’s parents have been home for Thanksgiving. He must have been, what, seven years old the last time that they had a proper Thanksgiving dinner?

It’s really nice to have all of the Waynes in one place for a few days. There’s a weird sort of pang in Tim’s heart at that thought, cutting through the light fog in his chest, but he ignores it.

* * *

“Hey, Tim?” Jason swivels around in his computer to face Tim.

Tim looks up from where he’s sprawled on Jason’s bed as he does his homework. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“You have to read _Of Mice and Men_ for ninth grade English class, right? Do you happen to still have your copy in it?”

“Yeah, I do. Do you need to borrow it?”

Jason nods. “I just need to look at it for a few minutes. There’s this one line that I want to use in my essay, but my teacher makes us cite everything with the page number.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I can go get it for you.” He starts to stand up, but Jason holds up his hands.

“Whoah, whoah, I don’t want to make you drop what you’re doing to go hunt down your book. I can go look for it if you can tell me where it is,” he suggests.

Tim shrugs. It’s a reasonable offer and he does need to study his chemistry notes. “Sure. It’s in a box in the back corner of my closet.”

“Okay, cool, thanks, you’re the best!” Jason calls over his shoulder as he trots out of his room and disappears into the hallway.

For a few minutes, Tim is left in relative peace to do his work. He peers at chemistry equations and his copy of the periodic table until the door to Jason’s bedroom opens once more and Jason walks in. Jason looks strangely subdued and almost… sad?

“Were you able to find the book?” Tim asks, looking up from his notes.

Jason nods and sets the book down on his desk. “Yeah, but…” He sighs and sits on the edge of the bed, sending Tim a sad look that he really, really doesn’t like.

Frowning, Tim sits up. “What’s wrong?”

Jason takes a deep breath and stares at his duvet. “I found your food stash.” Tim immediately freezes, eyeing Jason. “I have one too, I’m not about to shame you or anything. I know how it is. But-- you know that if you tell Alfred, he’ll help buy you stuff for your hoard and keep an eye on expiration labels, and stuff?” 

Tim meets Jason’s eyes for a moment before looking away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says at last.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can just barely see the corners of Jason’s mouth turn downwards. “It’s okay, Tim--” he tries to say, but Tim turns away.

“I have to study,” Tim declares, staring pointedly at his notes until Jason finally takes the hint. Sending one last sad look at Tim, Jason finally stands up and retreats back to his desk. They work in stilted silence for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

To: Jeffrey Anderson <janderson@anderson.com>

From: Wayne Foundation Recruitment Manager <recruitment@waynefoundation.org>

_November 27th, 9:03 AM (2 days ago)_

Subject: Open position at the Wayne Foundation

Dear Mr. Anderson,

It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance; the Wayne Foundation has been following your work for some time. All of us are very impressed by your analysis of vigilantism’s role within the criminal justice system. We are always looking to work with forward-thinking, community-minded individuals who seek to enact lasting change.

If you are interested in working with us, we believe that you would be a perfect fit for our organization. We would love to give you the resources with which to pursue your ideas. Your job title, project, and salary are all negotiable.

Please feel free to contact us with questions by emailing recruitment@waynefoundation.org or calling (###)-###-####. We will work with you to figure out the exact details of your position.

Best regards,

Felicia Jackson

* * *

Tim raises an eyebrow at the email from the Wayne Foundation. He’s literally living in Bruce Wayne’s house while the Wayne Foundation is unknowingly offering a job to him. The irony of the situation is not lost on him.

What’s he going to do, accept the job? He’ll be laughed out of the building when thirteen year old Timothy Drake walks through the door instead of the thirty-something year old man that they’re expecting. They’ll never take him seriously if they know who he is.

Tim archives the email and moves on with his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to [S](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolateandsilver) and [goldkirk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldkirk/pseuds/goldkirk) for being incredibly helpful and all of their wonderful advice!! The bit about Jason mentioning to Tim that Alfred could help swap out expired food from his stash was from goldkirk because their MIND is INCREDIBLE.
> 
> Thank you to all of you for reading and commenting! Even if I sometimes take a while to reply, I see those of you who comment on every chapter and I really, truly love you. Your love and comments motivate me to keep writing. <3 <3 <3


	12. the price of your greed is your son and your daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's field trip day! All three hundred-something students of Gotham Academy go visit the Gotham Museum of Fine Art. Tim is fairly excited at the prospect of a new photoshoot location. However, the field trip doesn't exactly go as planned.
> 
> This is Gotham, after all. If things always followed expectations, well... where would be the fun in that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Blood // Water by grandson. 
> 
> This chapter contains a scene that I've been waiting to write since I first started working on this fic. I'm very excited to finally share it with you all!! :D 
> 
> Some Timmys were hurt in the making of this chapter.
> 
>  **CWs:** guns, some blood, mild physical violence, panic attacks, dissociative episode

Tim’s phone buzzes as his first alarm goes off at seven-thirty in the morning. Five minutes later, his second alarm sounds and Tim grumbles, pulling his covers over his head.

His third alarm, rather than being an alarm on his phone, is when the door to his room cracks open and Jason whispers, “Go on, Ace, wake up Tim!”

Two seconds later, there is a very excited dog nosing through his covers so he can lick Tim’s face. Tim groans and holds up his hands to try to keep Ace from slobbering all over him.

“Wake up, Tim. You’ve gotta get ready for the field trip!” Jason chirps from the doorway, entirely too awake for someone who’s up before eight AM.

“Too early,” Tim croaks.

“Too bad. You have ten seconds to get out of bed or I’ll pull your covers off,” Jason replies. “Alfred gave me permission,” he adds as an afterthought.

Tim rubs at his eyes and sits up, absently patting Ace’s head. “I’m up,” he mumbles as he summons the energy to stand up.

Laughing, Jason leaves Ace in the room and shuts the door.

Almost thirty minutes later, Tim shuffles into the kitchen and plops down into his usual seat at the kitchen table.

“Morning,” Bruce greets him, sliding a mug of coffee across the table to Tim. Tim grunts in reply and gratefully clutches the mug as he sips at the elixir of life.

A moment later, Jason bounds into the kitchen and slides into his usual seat. “Good morning!”

Tim squints at him. “...Why are you so awake?” he asks flatly.

“I woke up early and went for a run,” Jason replies. “Also, Bruce let me have coffee.”

Bruce makes a sound of what likely constitutes agreement and takes a long draught of his own coffee.

Alfred sweeps over and sets down omelets in front of Jason and Tim. “If memory serves, I was the one who allowed the coffee seeing as Master Bruce is incapable of higher brain function before eight in the morning.”

Bruce tries to give Alfred a withering look, but he ends up looking kind of pained instead. Jason snickers and digs into his omelet.

Tim glances at Jason’s omelet, shakes his head at Jason’s fondness for _mushrooms_ , of all things, and starts eating his own omelet. Alfred is fond of shoving vegetables into as many foods as possible because something about “nutrition” and “your body needs vitamins, Master Tim.”

As usual, Bruce looks more awake once he’s finished his coffee and had breakfast. He leans back in his chair and alternates between flipping through the newspaper and watching Tim and Jason. After they both finish eating and Tim has finished off his coffee, Bruce clasps his hands together and leans forward.

“Tim, have your parents ever gone over kidnapping contingency plans with you?” Bruce asks calmly.

Oh, it is still _way_ too early to talk about his parents. Tim blinks at Bruce as he processes the question. “Uh… there are sometimes bodyguards present when one of my parents gives a public speech, but there’s not usually a whole _plan_ , per se. It’s mostly to stay behind the bodyguards and retreat to some designated rendezvous point.”

Bruce nods as if he was expecting that answer and pulls a palm-sized black box out of his pocket. From the box, he retrieves a small black device that’s about as big as Tim’s thumbnail. “This is a panic button that attaches to your watch. Now, I don’t necessarily _expect_ anything to go wrong today, but I tend to prefer taking the most cautious approach.”

Tim studies the device for a moment before looking back up at Bruce. “A bunch of rich kids are going to be in a museum full of a lot of valuable art,” he states.

“Exactly. Again, it’s unlikely that anything will happen, but I’d rather not risk that. You don’t have to wear the panic button if you don’t want to, but--”

Tim holds out his wrist with a watch on it. “Show me how to put it on?” Behind Bruce, he can faintly see Alfred smile as he watches them before he turns around to continue packing everyone’s lunches.

Bruce scoots his chair over and looks Tim in the eye, waiting for his reaction. “When you push that button, it’ll alert me and Alfred that you’re in danger. It contains a GPS chip to track your location and a microphone to record and broadcast whatever you’re hearing and saying. You won’t be able to hear us, but we’ll be able to hear you. It means that Alfred and I can find you, as well as any friends that we ask for help. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

“All right. Let me see your watch?” Tim holds out his wrist again and Bruce attaches the panic button to the back of his watch. “It’ll be next to the push button on your watch so you won’t accidentally press it, but it’ll still be there if you need it. If you want to stop the alert, simply push the button three times in a row.”

Tim nods. “Got it. One push, you can track us and hear what’s going on. Three pushes and you know that we’re not dying.”

“That’s the gist of it,” Bruce confirms. “Any questions?”

Jason raises his hand.

“...Any questions that are specifically about the panic button?”

Jason’s hand stays in the air.

With the infinite patience of someone who has raised multiple children, Bruce turns to Jason. “Yes, Jay?”

Lowering his hand, Jason asks, “Does running out of Ben and Jerry’s cherry garcia count as an emergency?”

“No, it does not,” Bruce replies with deliberate calm. “Does anyone have any other questions? Tim?”

“I think Jason has another question,” Tim points out with faux innocence.

After a tired pause, Bruce glances at Jason, whose hand is indeed raised again. “What is your question.”

“Where do babies come from?”

Bruce rolls up his newspaper and lightly whacks the back of Jason’s head. Jason, for his part, leans on the table and giggles uncontrollably as Bruce whacks him with the rolled up newspaper again.

Alfred deposits two lunchboxes on the table in front of Bruce. At Bruce’s despairing look, Alfred merely chuckles and kisses Bruce’s forehead. “You’ll get no help from me here. Do you recall that time when you were fourteen and you--”

“Al, please,” Bruce groans, burying his face in his hands.

Perking up at the prospect of an embarrassing story about teenaged Bruce, Jason leans towards Alfred. “Yes, Al, please. What did B do when he was fourteen?”

“Time to leave, we don’t want to be late,” Bruce says before Alfred can reply. “Lots of traffic today, I hear. Kids, say goodbye to Alfred.”

Still laughing, Jason hugs Alfred and kisses his cheek. Tim also hugs Alfred and tolerates a kiss on the forehead. Bruce hands them both their lunches, lets them pick up their backpacks, and herds them out of the kitchen as Alfred chuckles behind them.

* * *

Bruce drops them off at Gotham Academy with a forehead kiss for each of them and a gentle reminder to stick together so they don’t get lost. Together, Jason and Tim head over to the gaggle of students waiting next to the line of charter buses.

They wait at the edges of the crowd until teachers start herding students onto buses. That’s when Jason takes Tim’s hand and plants it on the handle of his backpack. He starts moving through the crowd towards the bus with the most empty seats, towing Tim along after him. Thankfully, he keeps his steps short enough that Tim can actually keep up.

“We gotta make sure that we’re on the same bus,” Jason says over his shoulder as he makes his way around a pack of football players. “If I have to listen to anyone brag about how many beach houses their parents own, I’m gonna lose it.”

“That’s fair,” Tim replies as he scampers behind Jason.

They manage to worm their way onto the same bus and snag seats next to each other. Jason offers Tim a fist bump that he returns as a teacher walks down the aisle, writing down the names of all of the students present.

As the bus starts rolling, Jason pulls out a book and Tim leans back, closing his eyes. A tap on the shoulder disturbs him and Tim opens his eyes to find Jason holding out one earbud. Tim smiles and takes the earbud. The first few chords of _Sunlight_ ring out as Tim puts on the earbud; Jason must be on another Hozier kick.

After twenty minutes of trudging through Gotham’s traffic, the bus’s doors open and unleash a flood of children onto the front steps of the museum. The principal pulls out a megaphone and begins to issue instructions: the buses will leave again for Gotham Academy at two, call your bus’s supervisor if you think that you’ll be late, meet in front of the museum if there’s an emergency, blah blah blah.

“Which exhibit do you want to see first?” Jason whispers as the principal drones on.

Tim purses his lips as he thinks. “Folk art first,” he decides. “It’ll have lots of interesting three-dimensional stuff to photograph.”

“Good idea. Maybe we can see the one on self-portraits of Gothamites afterwards?”

He nods. “That sounds good. I want to maybe take a few photographs for my parents while I’m here. Do you think that we’ll have time to stop by the Monet exhibit?”

“Oh yeah, totally. I bet that we can fit it in before lunch.” The principal stops talking and the crowd begins to surge forward. “You should grab my backpack so we don’t get separated. Let’s go look at some art.”

They head to the folk art exhibit first and Tim gets some nice photos of the way that light weaves through some sculptures made of hundreds of strips of wood nailed together. Jason wanders around and reads the plaques on the other sculptures while Tim crouches next to a sculpture of a horse, searching for a good angle. Occasionally, Jason reads a particularly interesting description out loud, but he never wanders farther than twenty feet away from Tim.

The self-portraits of Gothamites exhibit contains a massive wall full of photographs-- primarily selfies-- of Gothamites. Surrounding the wall are multiple sculptures and paintings. Jason lingers in front of the wall for a long time. Tim makes sure to surreptitiously snap a few pictures of Jason in front of the wall of photographs.

Afterwards, they maneuver around the groups of Gotham Academy students milling about the other exhibits and head to the top floor where the Monet exhibit is housed. There are surprisingly few people in the exhibit, so Tim mostly drifts from painting to painting as he wonders which ones his parents might like pictures of. He ends up pausing in front of a piece depicting a field of lavender.

His mother always uses lavender shampoo; sometimes, when his parents are away and Tim is feeling particularly lonely, he’ll sneak into their bathroom just so he can steal some of their shampoo. It reminds him of when he was still little enough to be picked up and his parents would scoop him into their arms. Those were good days. Maybe his mother will like the field of lavender, so he takes a photo of it.

When he turns around, he finds Jason in the process of taking a selfie with the back of Tim’s head. Dropping his peace sign, Jason shrugs. “Bruce wanted pictures,” he explains.

Tim raises an eyebrow and shakes his head as he continues to circulate amongst the paintings, though he’s still smiling.

“Timbo, c’mere.” Jason beckons from Tim to take a step closer so he can take a selfie. Rolling his eyes, Tim obligates and gives the camera a small smile as Jason takes the picture. Jason looks at the photo and grins. In the photo, a few other museumgoers milling around in the background as Tim looks drily amused and Jason grins. He shows the photo to Tim before stepping away and texting someone, presumably Bruce.

Tim makes to walk to where a handful of people are already perusing the next painting, but Jason swoops in and links their elbows together instead. “What--”

Jason smiles at him, but something about it feels off. He pats Tim’s arm with his other hand and starts leading him in the opposite direction. “We should go check out the folk art exhibit,” he says casually. “You wanted to see it, right?”

The folk art exhibit was their first stop in the museum, so why does Jason want to see it again? Oh, something is wrong. This is bad.

“Yeah, it sounded really interesting,” Tim plays along, forcing himself to sound nonchalant as he places the lens cap back on his camera. He already had to order this camera to replace the uselessly expensive one that his parents bought him and he’d hate to damage it. 

Eyes glinting, Jason lightly squeezes Tim’s arm. “Oh, same mood. You’re really galaxy brain today, Tim.”

Step by step, they inch towards the stairs. With their arms linked together, he can feel how tense Jason is. Whatever’s going on, Tim hopes that it’s not the Joker. Scarecrow would be bad because he likes to terrorize his victims, but the Joker has no qualms about killing people.

In his peripheral vision, he can see a few figures slowly walking towards them. They’re almost out of the Monet exhibit; Tim can just barely see the railing of the massive staircase in the next room over. Just as they’re about to walk out of the exhibit, a tall, broad-framed man dressed in a long black trench coat steps in front of them and effectively blocks their way. Tim is opening his mouth to say something when the man nudges his trench coat open. He immediately notices two things.

First, the glint of a gun in his hand.

Second, he’s wearing a distinctive half-black and half-white suit, one of the hallmarks of Two-Face’s people.

Next to him, Jason squeezes Tim’s arm in warning. Tim shuts his mouth.

Two-Face’s goon, a pale man with slicked back brown hair and cold green eyes, smiles. “Hey, kids. Why don’t you be good little kiddos and head back there for me, yeah?” He gestures at the benches in the center of the Monet exhibit with his gun.

Arms still linked, they turn and start slowly walking back towards the center of the exhibit. As they walk, Tim pats Jason’s arm with his free hand before letting it fall towards his watch. The panic button-- he needs to hit the panic button.

Something cold prods the back of Tim’s neck and he freezes, fingers inches away from the button. “No funny business,” the goon threatens. “Keep your hands at your sides.” Tim and Jason unlink elbows and slowly drop their hands. “Good,” he purrs. “Now keep moving.”

The gun leaves the back of Tim’s neck and the man, who Tim decides to call Mullet, herds them over to the center of the exhibit. Another one of Two-Face’s henchmen roughly shoves Jason and Tim’s shoulders down, forcing them to sit two feet apart on the stone bench. Tim bites the inside of his cheek-- the move reminds him a little too much of when he tries to walk away while his father is in a bad mood. It doesn’t _hurt_ , but it leaves an uncomfortable tightness in his chest and prickling in his skin.

Tim forces himself to take a deep breath and focuses on the feeling of air entering and leaving his lungs. He’s been around guns before while running around Gotham and not gotten shot or killed. Granted, now he’s in the open and apparently being held hostage, but that’s fine. He’ll figure something out. Tim is Gotham’s Shadow and his job is to help.

Right now, the best way to help is to observe what’s going on. He’s observed Two-Face’s henchmen before, albeit from a safe distance. But being close to them has the added benefit of letting him get a good look at their faces, their expressions, their weapons. Tim takes another deep breath and forces his slowly growing anxiety out of his head. It’ll only slow him down.

He takes a good look around, eyes flitting over the other people who are moving with far more purpose than they were a minute prior. Throughout the exhibit, various patrons open their winter coats, revealing different versions of Two-Face’s signature bifurcated uniform. He can’t tell how many of them are armed, but a good number of them are visibly holding guns and at least two henchmen have especially big, wicked-looking guns.

On the other side of the exhibit, several henchmen stand guard around a group of three museumgoers. Not Gotham Academy students; they’re all roughly middle aged. One of the henchmen says something and presses a hand to her ear-- she’s most likely wearing a communicator-- and says something that Tim can’t quite make out.

Mullet nudges Jason’s shoulder with his gun. “You there, what’s your name?”

Tim can see Jason tense. “Jason Todd,” he replies warily.

“You’re Bruce Wayne’s kid, aren’t you?” One of the henchmen grins. “The street rat, right?”

A muscle in Jason’s jaw twitches, but his face remains relatively impassive. “Bruce adopted me, yeah.”

Mullet nods appreciatively. “I bet your dad would be willing to pay a pretty penny for your safe return, hmm?” He laughs and several of the other henchmen join in before he turns to Tim. “And who might you be, kid?”

Tim’s heart rises in his throat before he mercilessly squashes it back down. No, no, no. There’s no time for useless things like emotion right now. He needs to play his cards right or he won’t be able to help. He needs to be _useful_.

Some of his earliest memories involve staring into the mirror with his mother standing behind him as she coached him in the art of the gala smile. When he was older, she stood behind him once more and taught him her boardroom smile. The gala smile is bright and dazzling, but it’s nothing more than an attention-grabbing party trick. A boardroom smile, though, can be wielded like a weapon.

And what Tim needs right now is a weapon.

He summons his best boardroom smile, all gleaming sharpness, and aims it at Mullet. “I’m Timothy Jackson Drake. Pleased to meet you, though I wish it was under better circumstances.”

Mullet throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, this one has spirit!” He wipes away an imaginary tear and leans forward so he’s looking Tim in the eye. “Watch your mouth, kiddo. It would be a shame if that little silver tongue of yours was hurt.” With one smooth motion, he pulls a switchblade from his pocket and flips it open.

“Understood,” Tim says, still smiling.

Another henchman, this one a tanned blonde woman with clunky black combat boots, marches up to the bench where Jason and Tim are seated. Tim decides to call her Boots. “Hand over your cell phones and backpacks,” she orders. “Watches too, and that camera.”

Tim glances down at his camera and sighs. So long for his new camera. Hopefully he’ll be able to recover it later. He slides the camera off his neck and hands it to Boots, followed shortly by his phone. Next comes his backpack. As he takes off his watch, Tim purposefully fumbles with the clasp so he can hit the panic button with his pinky. He takes the lack of new guns being drawn on him to mean that nobody noticed the tiny motion. Good.

He hands over his watch and moves to properly fold his hands in his lap, but one of the henchmen nudges him with their gun. “Hands at your sides,” they growl.

“All right, all right,” Tim says as he unclasps his hands.

Next to him, Jason shoots Tim a look out of the corner of his eye. He can’t quite decipher what Jason is trying to say, but if he had to guess, he’d say that Jason is telling him to be careful.

“So,” Tim says, “Can I ask why we’re being held? I’m going to assume that it has something to do with wanting ransom money…?”

The henchmen dissolve into chuckles, but a slow clap echoes through the room and cuts through the sound. A moment later, the gaggle of goons parts down the middle to make way for--

Two-Face himself.

Well, this situation certainly can’t get any better. Tim has only caught one or two glimpses of Two-Face before and it was always through the zoom lens of his camera as he hid far away from the action. Now, though, Two-Face is standing no more than fifteen feet away, his hands shoved in his pockets. As he approaches, several of his henchmen point their guns at Tim and Jason as if they’re somehow going to fight Two-Face with their bare hands.

Okay, granted, Jason could possibly fight Two-Face and have a chance at winning. However, these people clearly don’t know that he’s Robin, which means that they think a sixteen year old could fight Two-Face. Hilarious.

“Oh, this one is mouthy,” Two-Face drawls, his eyes disinterestedly flicking over Tim and Jason. “Is this the Wayne boy and the Drakes’ kid?”

“Yeah, boss,” Boots replies. “We’re keeping an eye on them. Joe is calling their folks about the ransom.”

One of the goons behind Jason knocks their gun into his shoulder. It’s more of a light shove than a real hit, but Two-Face still frowns and makes a gesture with his hand.

“No attacking the kids without my say-so,” he snaps as Boots shoves the offending goon away with a push of her shoulder. The irritation in his face smooths over and he smiles, leaning over to straighten the lapel of Jason’s uniform jacket.

“Did you know,” Two-Face says conversationally as he brushes some imaginary dirt from Jason’s shoulder, “That I went to school with your father?”

Jason leans away slightly, looking faintly uncomfortable. “Um, I think he’s mentioned it once or twice.”

“I feel bad, taking his son hostage, but you know how it is.” He reaches out and roughly pats Jason’s cheek twice before, mercifully, finally taking a step back. “Then again, he has the power to change that if he chooses.”

One of the henchmen places a hand on a communicator in her ear, its curling wire descending into her suit jacket. “Boss, the cops sent in their negotiator. It sounds like they’re getting antsy.”

Two-Face’s smile stretches the scar tissue on his mouth, revealing more of his teeth than Tim would like to see. “Well, this would be over a lot more quickly if everyone paid up. Perhaps they need a reminder of what’s at stake.” He draws two pistols from their holsters, points them towards the ceiling, and shoots. _Pop pop._

Tim is thrown back to the feeling of Gotham’s cool night air, the burn in his lungs as he runs, the feeling of concrete ripping his skin and falling, falling, falling.

His fists clench reflexively; surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt. He isn’t bleeding, but he’s sitting on a cold stone bench that could easily be a concrete rooftop in Crime Alley. Tim breathes and blinks and the art museum is around him once more, but Tim himself isn’t quite there. With each breath, the worry and tightness in his chest bleeds away, leaving only smooth, cold glass.

Jason is looking his way, concerned, but nobody else in the room seems concerned, so everything is probably fine. Tim drums his fingers against the bench. There’s a weird lag like there’s some sort of faulty wiring between his brain and his hands.

At some point, Two-Face must have walked away to go talk to a group of people who are wrapping paintings in preparation for transport. As Tim watches as two henchmen carefully deposit a painting of irises with Two-Face’s collection of paintings and pry off its ancient-looking frame, he gets an idea. He might not be able to easily escape, but maybe he could get Jason out.

Jason is still staring at Tim and mouths, _are you okay_?

In response, Tim gives Jason his best boardroom smile. Jason opens his mouth as if to say something, but Tim beats him to it.

“Mr. Two-Face!” he calls across the room.

“No talking!” one of the goons next to Tim growls. At the same time, Jason hisses, “Tim, don’t.”

Ignoring them, Tim adds, “I have a proposition for you.”

Two-Face turns, eyebrows raising, and crosses the room until he’s standing five feet away from Tim. Instead of the fear from before, all Tim feels is a cool emptiness. The fear is laying around somewhere, he’s sure, but wherever it is, it must be buried very deep. But that’s okay; it will just hold him back. He has a job to do, after all.

Once he’s sure that he has Two-Face’s attention, Tim begins, “I’m guessing that the motivation behind this whole exercise is money, correct? That’s why you waited until the children of some of the richest people in Gotham were in a building full of very expensive art. But please allow me to present an alternative idea.”

“ _Tim,_ ” Jason hisses, but Tim ignores him.

Two-Face’s smile twists, but he doesn’t interrupt so Tim decides to keep going. “Money represents opportunity. It opens doors for you and allows you to do things that you couldn’t do before. But might I point out that aggravating Bruce Wayne would result in him fighting to shut down all of the opportunities that you just gained access to? After all, you’ve just kidnapped the son of the richest man in the city _and_ one of his dead mother’s favorite paintings.”

“And which one would that be?” Two-Face asks mildly, watching Tim.

Tim jerks his chin in the direction of the painting that he noticed moments earlier. “The Monet one with the irises. He still keeps irises planted at Wayne Manor for her, you know,” he adds, thinking of the carefully tended beds of irises near the front entrance of the house. “That painting’s frame is old; it’s been at this museum for a long time. Plus everyone knows how much Martha Wayne loved the arts. She would’ve taken Bruce to see it with her.”

The calm air about Two-Face roils with a familiar buried storm. He has the same expression that Janet Drake gets when she’s angry enough to lash out at him. It’s his fault, Tim knows, but he can take this. He’s helping.

“And what would you propose that I do, Tim?” Two-Face replies, tilting his head minutely. His hands are resting on his guns, but Tim will take that implied threat.

Tim makes his best eye contact and lifts his chin. “Let Jason go and increase my ransom. My parents are rich, it won’t make much of a difference to them. You’ll get your money, Bruce Wayne will get his son back, and you won’t have to deal with him being a nuisance later on.”

“No,” Jason snaps, “That’s a terrible deal, don’t take it. Send Tim away, not me, you shouldn’t--”

Two-Face raises a hand, effectively cutting Jason off. With deliberate calm, he crouches in front of Tim, their knees nearly brushing. Up close, Tim can see the places where the acid had nearly melted Two-Face’s muscle down to the bone, but he doesn’t feel disgusted. He doesn’t feel anything at all, actually, even when Two-Face smiles like he’s considering the best way to take Tim apart.

“Two things,” Two-Face says genially, hands on his guns. “First, I think you need to remember who is the hostage here, and who holds the power. Understand?”

Tim nods. “Perfectly.”

“Good,” he replies. Two-Face smiles again, and then he punches Tim in the face.

Something cracks. It takes Tim a moment to register that the thing making the sound is his nose. His face hurts a lot, he notes absently, but the pain feels far away. Wetness dribbles down his face and when Tim raises a hand to his nose, it comes away bloody.

“Don’t fucking touch him!” Jason shouts and makes as if to move closer to Tim, but two henchmen grab his arms and force him to stay still.

“Now, the second thing,” Two-Face says calmly as if he hadn’t just hit Tim in the face. “Your little scheme isn’t part of our plan, so we’ll have to see if we can fit it in, hmm?” He reaches into his pocket and removes a two-headed silver dollar. It winks in the light as he lovingly turns it over in his hands, showing Tim the scratch on one side. “We’re going to flip to see if we should release your friend. If it lands on the unmarked side, we’ll let him go unharmed. Otherwise, you both stay.”

Tim nods and flashes Two-Face a bright smile as blood dribbles onto his school uniform. “Well then, what are you waiting for?”

Jason struggles against the goons holding him, but to no avail. Two more goons join in holding his arms, but Tim hardly glances at him. “No!” Jason screams, voice raw. “Don’t do it! I’ll tell Dad to come after you anyways, I’ll--”

Two-Face flips the coin. It arcs through the air beautifully, Tim thinks, like a dancer. With the ease of practice, Two-Face snatches the coin out of the air and slaps it onto the back of his other hand. The unmarred side stares back at them. Heads.

“Well then,” Two-Face looks up at Tim and smiles. “Congratulations. It looks like your little deal worked in your friend’s favor.”

Tim smiles his best boardroom smile and extends one hand to Two-Face. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

“ _Tim,”_ Jason chokes out, momentarily stilling. “Tim, _please_.”

“Indeed.” Two-Face shakes with his unscarred hand before turning his attention to the henchmen holding Jason. “Now, would you please bring the boy downstairs and inform Drake Industries of the change in demands?”

“Will do,” one of the henchmen replies. Together, the four of them grab Jason’s arms and haul him upright.

“No! You can’t do this!” Jason yells, starting to life as he tries to throw them off. Still, his fighting is constrained by his secret identity, so he isn’t able to do much more than shove them. The henchmen quickly recover and start dragging him out of the exhibit. “Tim-- don’t hurt Tim or I’ll fucking come for you. You can’t get rid of me that easily--”

Even after he disappears around the corner, his screaming echoes through the exhibit. The elevator dings and a moment later, Jason’s shouts grow muffled before disappearing entirely.

Two-Face pats Tim’s knee and stands up. “You’re quite the little hell-raiser. I’d hate to be one of your parents,” he laughs before walking away.

Several henchmen stay gathered around Tim, guns out, but they don’t seem inclined to shoot him just yet. Tim’s shoulders relax; he did his job. By now, Jason is likely out of the museum. He’s safe. Batman will have his Robin and Bruce will have his son. Tim helped.

Still seated on the bench, Tim lets his surroundings fade into a quiet hum of noise and light. Minutes blur together, but Tim is a slab of glass: unfeeling, unthinking.

Something nudges his shoulder, drawing Tim out of his thoughts. He looks around, blinking, and notices that the group of henchmen around him has increased in number. The thing pressed against his shoulder is the barrel of a gun. Part of him lazily notes that he should be afraid, but there’s only nothingness where the fear should be.

The people around him are talking. Tim has to focus to tune into their conversations, but he manages to catch snatches of what they’re saying.

“Lower levels not responding--”

“--on, stay alert.”

“Batman--”

That last one catches his attention. Is Batman here? He doesn’t see Batman around anywhere, but maybe--

Something collides with Tim in a rush of air. He’s pressed against something hard and warm and then they’re tumbling, the world shifting and then righting itself against. There’s nothing around him but blue and faint hints of red. It doesn’t occur to Tim to struggle until a moment later, but his weak flailing does nothing to dislodge the vice-like arms clutching him. He’s being held against someone’s chest. A chest clad in blue and Tim’s cheek is pressed right next to--

Oh. _Oh_. That’s Superman’s symbol, a triangular yellow background overlaid with a red S.

“Are you all right?” the dark-haired man currently holding Tim asks-- _Superman._

“Yeah,” Tim replies breathlessly. Dimly, he can hear the _pop pop_ _pop_ of gunshots; the fighting must be right next to them, but Superman is draped over him like a bulletproof shield.

Superman smiles reassuringly at Tim. “Then let’s get you out of here.” And then they’re moving again, wind rushing past Tim’s ears, until it slows and they stop again.

Tim is set on another stone bench and Superman crouches in front of him. “Stay safe, champ,” he says before flying back up to the top floor of the museum in a blur of red and blue. Several people clad in white and blue EMT uniforms take Superman’s place, buzzing around Tim. He barely manages to answer their questions-- his name is Tim Drake; no, he’s not injured other than his nose.

An EMT lightly runs their fingers over Tim’s nose, sending waves of hot pain rolling through his face, and he flinches away. The hands come back, though, and Tim whines, leaning away again. Then there are hands firmly holding his shoulders, keeping him from moving as the EMT returns for a second time.

A flicker of something-- fear, maybe-- shines through the glass in Tim’s head, but it’s strangely dull. “No,” he says and tries to struggle against the hands holding him, but he can’t manage much more than weakly lifting his arms in front of his face.

The hands leave his shoulders and Tim breathes. A familiar hand lightly rests on his back, rubbing circles into it as someone raises their voice. Oh, that’s Jason rubbing his back and arguing with the paramedics.

“We can set his nose at home,” Jason says sharply. There’s a foil blanket wrapped around his shoulders. It matches the shock blanket that appeared on Tim at some point recently. “Look, he clearly doesn’t want to be touched by a bunch of strangers right now. Can’t we just--”

Tim leans into Jason’s hand and lets himself slump over enough that he can press his head against Jason’s side. The hand moves up so it’s carding through his hair instead. People around him are still saying things, but Jason seems to be handling the situation. Tim closes his eyes and just breathes.

He blinks, and there’s something warm pressed against his side and something else pressing against his nose. Oh, that’s Jason sitting next to him, still wearing a shock blanket. Tim frowns at the pressure on his nose until he realizes that it’s his own hand holding tissues to his still-bleeding nose.

Jason is talking with someone. Tim focuses on the face until his brain finally supplies him with the name _Jim Gordon_. He sits there for a while, mind pleasantly quiet until his brain decides to tune into the conversation.

“--staying with us for now,” Jason says, one arm wrapped around Tim’s shoulders. His eyes are red like he’s been crying.

Jim Gordon meets Tim’s eyes for a moment. Whatever he’s looking for, he must not find it because his gaze switches back to Jason. “All right. I’ll get in touch with your father and-- oh, speak of the devil.”

And then Bruce is running towards them, suit jacket flapping in the air as he sprints across the lobby of the museum. He skids to a halt in front of Jason and Tim and kneels in his expensive suit, clutching their hands like they could be snatched away from him at any moment. “Jay, Tim. I was so worried,” he rasps, eyes flickering over them as he scans them for injuries.

“Dad,” Jason chokes out, eyes tearing up, “ _Dad_. Tim’s not--”

Bruce regards Tim with his gentle blue eyes before looking back at Jason. “I know. He’s not there right now, but it’s okay. It’s okay, Jay,” he soothes, giving Jason’s hand a light squeeze.

Jason nods, crying, and then Bruce carefully, so carefully wraps his arms around both of them and hugs them like they might break. Tim lets his head droop forward so it’s resting on Bruce’s shoulder, and then time blurs and the hug is over.

“--need to talk to Jim,” Bruce is saying. Tim hums in response and Jason nods shakily. He watches absently as Bruce walks away with Jim Gordon until they’re out of earshot but still within sight.

Next to him, Jason starts crying again. Tim slowly turns and blinks at Jason, perplexed. Why is he crying? What should Tim do to help? He’s already been helpful once today, but maybe he needs to help again. Tim reaches out with an awkward hand that doesn’t want to respond to his commands and clumsily pats Jason on the shoulder.

Jason glares at him before his face falls and he curls up, crying harder. Oh. Tim retracts his hand and lets it flop into his lap while he continues holding tissues to his bloody nose with the other.

He sits there awkwardly, drifting, until Bruce walks back. Bruce takes each of their hands again and rubs his thumb over Tim’s knuckles. It’s kind of soothing.

“I’m going to take you both home now, okay?” His voice is gentle but steady. “Jim Gordon has someone putting your things in my car. You’ll have to give a statement at some point, but you don’t have to think about that yet. Right now, our priority is getting you both home and feeling better. I parked by the back entrance. Do you think you can handle walking over there, Tim?”

Tim blinks as he considers the question. His brain feels like molasses and everything feels very far away. Maybe he could walk. His legs are still there when he looks down, but they don’t really feel like his legs right now. He gives a half-shrug.

“I’ll carry you, then. Jason, are you okay to walk?”

Jason nods and rubs at his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

“Okay. Tim, I’m going to pick you up now,” Bruce says and then he’s being carried for the second time that day. Tim keeps the bloody tissues held to his nose and lets his head drop so it rests against Bruce’s chest. He faintly registers Bruce pressing a kiss to the top of his head and then they’re walking.

Everything feels muffled and quiet and their surroundings start to blur together as Tim’s eyes grow heavy.

Blink. They’re stepping out of the museum. The sky is gray and overcast, but at least it’s not raining.

Blink. He’s being bundled into the window seat of the car. Jason is in the middle seat even though there’s a whole extra window seat that he could sit in.

“Stop looking at me like that. They had to-- had to drag me away from you. I’m gonna sit next to you,” Jason snaps, though the tears on his face and his choked up voice dampen the heat behind his words.

Bruce twists around in the driver’s seat, brow furrowed in concern, and places a hand on Jason’s cheek. “I’m sorry, Jay,” he murmurs. “We’re going to deal with that once we’re home, okay?”

“Okay.” Jason sniffles and rubs at his eyes before glancing over at Tim again. He looks-- sad, but also angry?

Tim is too tired to parse through the whys, so he lets his head flop onto Jason’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

Jason makes a sound that’s somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “You’re not even--”

“Jay, honey, ” Bruce interrupts, not unkindly. “We can deal with that once we’re home. I can’t take care of both of you when I’m driving. Okay?”

“Fine,” Jason whispers, ducking his head.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Bruce says gently.

Tim sinks into the emptiness in his head and lets Jason wrap an arm around his shoulders.

Blink. The car pulls to a stop in front of Wayne Manor. Alfred is already walking outside to meet them. Tim stares absently at the large wooden double doors that function as the manor’s front entrance.

 _Home_ , he thinks absently, and then Bruce is picking him up again and Tim thinks of nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to [S](https://chocolateandsilver.tumblr.com/) and [goldkirk](https://goldkirk.tumblr.com/) for all of their help and encouragement!!! <3
> 
> _Later that day, down in the Batcave..._  
> 
> 
> _Head in his hands, Bruce stares at the sign next to the Batcomputer that reads DAYS SINCE LAST KIDNAPPING. With a sigh, he erases the old number and draws a big, fat zero in its place. They had been doing so well..._
> 
> I'm not going to lie, this week has been fucking rough. Even though the past few days have been trash, the thing that kept it from being a dumpster fire is people. My friends, my readers, my dogs, the people who have messaged me to tell me how much they appreciate this fic: y'all really, truly make me happy. And to everyone who takes the time to comment on every single chapter: I see you and I love the fuck out of you. I probably won't have the mental energy to reply to comments on this chapter, but I really, really love and appreciate all of you. 
> 
> For those of you who are having a rough time: it's going to be okay. Yes, even on the days where your brain is full of fog and you can't do much more than be a lump on your bed. Even in the moments where your brain is a jumbled mess of fear-upset-shame-anger all heaped into a massive ball of Bad and it feels like there's a thunderstorm trapped in your head and you're curled up and just trying to exist and everything really, really fucking sucks. I promise you that there is more out there for you than just this. Be gentle with yourselves. We're gonna be okay.


	13. will you be my breath through the deep, deep water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim deals with the aftermath of the field trip. Luckily, he's not alone. Between Bruce, Ace, and plenty of blankets, they'll figure it out together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Deep Water by American Authors. 
> 
> This chapter is brought to you by my sweaty ass living in an area that had a 104 heat index for the whatever-th day in a row. Remember to drink water, kids. :')
> 
>  **CWs:** dissociative episode, mentions of light blood, descriptions of setting a broken nose, hyperventilation

Bruce carries Tim into the den and sets him down on one of the couches. He faintly registers Alfred ushering Jason onto another couch and the clack of Ace’s nails on the hardwood floor.

Kneeling in front of Tim, Bruce rubs his hands up and down Tim’s arms as if trying to warm him. He watches Tim intently, eyes calm and focused. The expression is more Batman than Bruce.

“Alfred, could you pass me the-- oh, thank you,” he says as Alfred hands him a folded blanket. It’s dark gray and looks very soft. Bruce carefully unfolds it and gently places Tim’s hand on it so he can feel it. He takes the bloody tissues still clutched in Tim’s other hand and tosses them into a nearby wastebasket. “This is a weighted blanket. I’m going to wrap you up in it so we can see if it helps, all right?”

Tim stares at the blanket. His hand is touching it and part of him registers something soft, but it feels very far away. “Helps with what?” he mumbles.

“You’re dissociating, sweetheart,” Bruce explains gently. “I can tell you more once you’re back with us and better able to understand what’s going on. Now, I’m going to wrap you up with this blanket. Think you can lay down for me, or do you need help?”

Tim is floating and hears Bruce’s voice as if through a fog. He hums, struggling to process the words, but they slip out of his hands. And then one of Bruce’s hands is on his chest and the other is pressed between his shoulder blades as he’s carefully maneuvered into laying down on the couch.

“It’s going to feel a little heavy,” Bruce warns as he sits down next to Tim. A moment later, a gentle weight settles on him as Bruce tucks the blanket around him.

He can feel pressure on his limbs, but it’s less faint than he would’ve expected. As Bruce starts stroking Tim’s hair, Tim sighs and leans into his hand. Tim drifts for a while, pleasantly warm and cozy. Little by little, the weight of the blanket feels closer and closer until Tim finally slides back into his body.

Tim brings his hands out of the blanket and holds them in front of his face. They mostly feel like his hands and they open and close when he wants, which is probably a good thing. Part of him still feels kind of weird, like there’s still a thin layer of glass between him and the world, but it’s not nearly as bad as it was earlier.

“Are you back with us?” Bruce asks gently as he cards his hands through Tim’s hair.

“What was that?” Tim croaks rubbing at his eyes.

“Your brain was disconnected for a while. It’s called dissociation,” Bruce explains slowly, as if he’d anticipated how much mental effort it would take for Tim to process his words. “It’s a common response to trauma.”

Tim pulls the weighted blanket up to his chin. “Huh.”

For a few minutes, Bruce keeps stroking Tim’s hair as Tim slowly drifts back into his body. Over on the other couch, he can faintly hear Alfred murmuring to Jason.

Fabric shifts and footsteps shuffle across the rug. “B? Tim?” Jason stands by the edge of the couch, a red blanket thrown around his shoulders like a cape. “Can I join you?”

Tim makes an affirmative noise and curls up a little so Bruce can scoot over enough to make room for Jason. He takes a seat on Bruce’s other side, head pillowed on his father’s shoulder.

“I’m still mad at you,” Jason mumbles, “But you’re my friend and I still love you. We can talk about it later.”

Bruce wraps one arm around Jason’s shoulders and kisses his forehead. “Later,” he agrees. “Once you’re both feeling better. But it’s okay to be upset, Jay.”

Jason nods against Bruce’s shoulder.

“You’re mad?” Tim says at last, a little helplessly. “What did I do?”

Mercifully, the hands running through his hair don’t stop. “Jason is upset because he felt like you put yourself in serious but avoidable danger on his behalf. We’ll talk more about this later, okay? You’re not in trouble, honey, we’re just worried about you.”

“But--” The weighted blanket slides down to Tim’s waist as he sits up and twists to look at Jason and Bruce. “I was trying to help,” he protests weakly. “I was being useful.”

“Oh, Timmy,” Bruce says softly as Tim watches him, distraught. “Come here.” He lifts one arm and Tim crawls under it, letting Bruce pull him into his side.

Bruce watches Tim carefully and rubs circles into his shoulder. “Tim,” he says slowly, deliberately, “Our love for you is not conditional. You don’t have to be useful or helpful for us to love you, and you certainly don’t need to prove yourself worthy. We love you because of who you are, not what you could do for us. Okay?”

Tim frowns. “I was just trying to help,” he repeats quietly, staring at his clasped hands in his lap.

“I know, sweetheart. You were doing what you thought was right.” Bruce kisses his forehead and cups Tim’s face with one hand. “We can talk more about it later. Right now, you should focus on feeling better.”

“Okay,” Tim mumbles as Bruce tugs him closer so he can rest his head on Bruce’s shoulder.

They stay curled up on the couch together for a while. Jason seems content to lean into Bruce and partially bury his face in Bruce’s chest. Tim tolerates the closeness, especially when Bruce starts petting his hair again.

Alfred comes by with glasses of water for each of them plus some painkillers for Tim’s nose and takes a moment to press kisses into the tops of their heads. “I’m going to make some hot chocolate and perhaps some cookies. Snickerdoodles and chocolate chip cookies certainly can’t hurt, after all.”

“Thanks, Al,” Bruce tells him and is rewarded with a kiss on the cheek.

“Call me if you need anything,” Alfred replies and passes Bruce the television remote before sweeping out of the room.

“Are either of you up for a movie or something to watch?” Bruce asks, brushing some of Jason’s hair out of his face.

“Sure.” Tim half-shrugs.

Jason nods against Bruce’s chest. “Maybe… Bob’s Burgers?”

Bruce nods and opens Netflix on the television. He pulls up Bob’s Burgers and sets the remote aside, pulling Tim and Jason closer to him. “I want both of you to drink your water,” he orders gently. “If you get dehydrated, you’ll feel even worse.”

Tim picks up his glass of water and swallows the painkillers with a sip of water. His head feels kind of fuzzy— maybe Bruce has a point about dehydration. He obediently drinks half of the glass before setting it back down. The weighted blanket draped over his legs provides welcome pressure as he settles in to watch Bob’s Burgers.

At some point, Alfred reappears with three mugs of hot chocolate and a plate of warm cookies. He deposits it on the coffee table in front of them before taking a seat in a cozy-looking armchair and pulling out some knitting. It looks like a sweater, maybe, but Tim can’t tell for sure. The soft clacking of his knitting needles is almost cathartic as Tim sips on his hot chocolate and munches on a cookie.

Ace curls up at Bruce’s feet and dozes, occasionally letting loose a little puppy snore. He barely wakes up when Jason carefully shoves his feet underneath Ace’s belly.

“What?” Jason shrugs when he catches Tim looking. “He’s warm and my feet are like ice.”

“Hm,” Tim says, and returns to watching the show.

He’s still drifting a little bit, but it’s not nearly as bad as it was earlier. Now, it’s like a downy blanket separating him from the rest of the world. Tim finds that he doesn’t mind it too much. Everything is still kind of weird and raw and scary, so it’s better to let himself remain in his cozy little burrow rather than deal with all of it.

After three episodes, Bruce turns to Tim. “How are you feeling?”

Tim shrugs. “Okay, I guess. Kind of weird.”

“Weird how?” Bruce asks patiently, eyes searching his face.

“Just… weird. My head feels more normal but it’s still not entirely there.” He picks at a loose thread on his sleeve.

“Hm. That’s a relatively normal response to traumatic events like today’s,” Bruce muses. “How about you keep sitting here with us and we’ll see how you’re feeling in another hour?”

Tim nods and Bruce turns to Jason. “How about you, Jay?”

“I’m tired,” Jason mumbles, “But less angry. And I’m not two minutes away from a panic attack anymore, so that’s good.”

Bruce nods and kisses his forehead. “That is good. Let’s try to keep you there, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Jason nods and snuggles a little closer to Bruce.

They manage to make it through another episode before there’s the sound of footsteps in the hallway, which is unusual in and of itself. Bats, after all, tend to move silently except when they’re trying to avoid startling someone. The sound of movement is accompanied by Dick’s familiar voice yelling, “Tim! Jay!”

Dick bursts into the den and unceremoniously drops his duffel bag on the ground before walking over to the couch. “Sorry I took so long. I had to get one of the others to cover for me at work so I could leave early.” His eyes flit over Tim and Jason, lingering over the now-dried blood on Tim’s shirt. “How are you two? Alfred debriefed me while I was on my way here, but I was kind of freaking out and--”

The rest of Dick’s words blur together as Tim stares at him in confusion. “Why are you here?” he interrupts rudely, his mind too weary to stop the breach of decorum.

Dick pauses his rambling, face softening. “Because two of my favorite people were kidnapped and I was worried about you.” He takes a seat on the armrest of the couch and reaches out to ruffle Tim’s hair.

“You have work,” Tim says uncomprehendingly.

“I left work, actually,” Dick corrects lightly. “I wanted to make sure that both of you are okay. It sounded like you could use some of my patented big brother hugs.”

“But-- you have work,” he repeats uselessly, staring at Dick. “And you left?” To Tim’s dismay, his eyes start to tear up.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Dick soothes, sliding off the armrest to sit next to Tim. “It’s okay, Timmy. I left to be here with you guys.”

Embarrassingly, Dick’s words are just enough to make Tim burst into tears. Dick murmurs reassurances as he gathers Tim in his arms and expertly administers a patented Dick Grayson Big Brother Hug™. Granted, it’s more like Dick Grayson Big Brother Snuggling, but Tim is a bit too busy with crying to consider semantics. He sobs into Dick’s shirt as Dick pets his hair and rubs his back. His face hurts and there’s a weird pressure around his nose, but it’s a few shades removed as if someone draped a layer of gauze over the sensation.

Dick had work but he left and now he’s here and it was all because he cares about Jason and Tim. He _cares_. It’s kind of a stupid thing to cry about, but Tim can’t keep himself from crying so hard that he nearly can’t breathe.

“You left,” Tim repeats helplessly, “You left, you left you left--”

“And I came back,” Dick replies easily, smoothing a hand over Tim’s hair. “We’ll always come back for you, Tim.”

This only makes Tim sob harder, clutching Dick’s shirt like it’s a lifeline. Unfortunately, this makes his swollen nose ache more, but it looks like the tears are coming regardless of whether Tim wants them to or not. Dick tucks Tim’s head against his chest and lets him cry into his shirt. Between his bloody nose earlier that day and the slightly bloody snot from him crying, he’s surely making a mess all over Dick’s shirt. However, Dick doesn’t seem to mind. He practically pulls Tim into his lap and curls around him like a brotherly octopus.

Another hand slides into Tim’s hair and cups the back of his neck. “Remember to breathe, honey,” Bruce says gently. “Deep breath in and deep breath out, there you go.”

Slowly, Tim’s stuttered breathing evens out and his tears subside. His face and nose still kind of hurt with a strange hot ache, but the pain is distant and foggy. He releases his death grip on Dick’s shirt, only to realize that it’s smeared with a mixture of tears and bloody snot. “Your shirt-- I’m so sorry--”

Upon seeing the horrified look on Tim’s face, Dick kisses his forehead. “I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t cried after a bloody nose and gotten blood all over my shirt. This is nothing. I can always get another shirt,” he reassures him.

“But--”

Dick cups Tim’s face in his hands. “Timbo. My priority here is making sure that you’re okay. I would happily sacrifice many, many shirts to do that. You deserve to be happy. Okay?”

Tim blinks up at Dick and feels his eyes start to water again.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Dick murmurs, planting another kiss on Tim’s forehead before gently reeling him in for another hug. “I came back for you-- for both of you, because you’re both important to me. You deserve to be happy and safe.”

To avoid looking at Dick, Tim burrows into his arms and hides his face in Dick’s chest. Even the soft pressure hurts his nose, so Tim is forced to just press his forehead into Dick’s shirt. Laughing gently, Dick rubs his back.

“Think there’s room for one more?” Jason asks. Tim makes a sound of agreement and a moment later, Jason is climbing over Bruce. He plops down next to Tim and leans over so his cheek is pressed against Tim’s back.

“Oh, is it time for a group hug?” Dick lights up and wraps his arms around both of them, ignoring Jason’s half-hearted grumble of protest. “I think it’s time for a group hug.”

“Dickie. Why are you like this,” Jason says against Tim’s back.

Laughing, Dick pulls them both closer for a moment before releasing Jason. “You know, a little birdie once told me that I give great hugs,” he replies as his arms settle back around Tim.

Jason picks up a pillow and brandishes it threateningly. “I said no such thing,” he retorts, whacking Dick in the arm with the pillow.

“Hey, hey, watch it! I’m carrying precious cargo,” Dick whines, twisting to block the pillow from hitting Tim.

Bruce reaches out and intercepts the pillow with one hand. “Maybe later, Jay,” he says gently. “Do you two want to keep watching Netflix?”

“Yeah,” Tim mumbles.

“Sure, let’s keep going.” Jason sighs and sits back down. He goodnaturedly allows Bruce to tug him closer until Jason is nestled against his side with Bruce’s arm thrown around his shoulders. Bruce hits the resume play button on the remote and they settle in to continue watching Bob’s Burgers.

Tim ends up comfortably squashed between Jason and Dick. All things considered, it’s not that bad. Dick seems content to let Tim curl up next to him and it’s kind of reassuring to have Dick’s arm thrown around his shoulders. Jason leans into Tim just enough for the pressure to be comforting instead of stifling. Plus, watching Netflix keeps his brain occupied without being too mentally taxing. It’s a good setup, which is probably why Bruce suggested it.

Hmm. Smart man.

They eat dinner in front of the television as Alfred sits in his chair and knits. The food on his tongue tastes like ash, but Tim makes sure to keep eating until Jason stops enthusiastically commenting on how great Alfred’s cooking is. (For a Bat, Jason is remarkably unsubtle. Perhaps that trait comes from the Waynes instead of the Bats.)

After dinner, Tim wriggles out of the cuddle pile and stands up. “I should do homework,” he sighs.

Bruce shoots him a slightly concerned look. “Tim,” he says patiently, “You don’t need to even think about school right now. You were held hostage, sweetie. Our main priority right now is helping you and Jason process everything and feel better again, okay?”

“But we have school tomorrow,” Tim replies, brow furrowed.

“The principal emailed me a few hours ago. You’re both allowed to skip the rest of this week and your teachers will help you get caught up later.”

“Oh,” Tim says, hovering next to the couch. “Okay.”

Bruce watches him carefully. “Do you want to keep watching Netflix, or would you rather do something else?”

He takes a moment to consider the offer. “Netflix, please,” Tim mumbles.

“All right,” Bruce replies easily and glances at the space that Tim just vacated but is now occupied by Jason’s leg and Dick’s feet. “Boys, could you please make room for Tim?” With some grumbling, the tangle of limbs shifts.

“Oh, that’s okay, you don’t need to move for me,” Tim says and quickly takes a seat on Bruce’s other side. “I’m fine. See?”

Wrapping an arm around Tim’s shoulders, Bruce gently reels Tim in closer until he’s curled up against Bruce’s side. “Good?” he asks.

Tim wiggles a little until he gets settled. “Yeah.”

Bruce nods and starts running his hand through Tim’s hair as the intro music for Bob’s Burgers starts playing yet again.

* * *

“Tim, sweetie,” Bruce says at the end of one of the episodes. “Do you remember Leslie Thompkins? She’s the doctor who helped you when your ankle was sprained.”

Tim nods a little and tugs the blanket around his shoulders tighter. “I remember her.”

“That’s good, buddy. Well, we need to have someone take a look at your nose. Leslie is going to come by the house and take a few x-rays in about twenty minutes, okay?”

Frowning, Tim buries his fingers in his blanket. “But-- why can’t you do it?”

Bruce runs a hand over Tim’s hair. “I’m not a real doctor, sweetheart. Legally, we need to have a qualified professional examine your nose to make sure that nothing serious is wrong.”

Tim lifts a hand to prod at his nose, but Bruce catches his wrist in one hand before he can touch it. “Let’s avoid touching your nose right now, okay? I don’t want you to accidentally hurt yourself.”

“Okay,” Tim mumbles, deflating a little and leaning against Bruce.

Bruce kisses the top of his head and runs his fingers through Tim’s hair soothingly. They stay like that for a while with Tim’s eyes half-closed as his mind drifts. Eventually, Bruce shifts and Tim opens his eyes fully again.

“Leslie is here,” Bruce says gently, carefully extricating himself from the tangle of blankets and people. “You can just stay here, okay? They’ll bring the x-ray over. Dick, Jay, you’re both going to need to move in a few minutes when we x-ray Tim’s nose.”

Jason shoots him a thumbs up and flops onto the floor, narrowly missing landing on his brother. Still cocooned in a blanket, he rolls across the floor before heaving himself onto another couch. Dick scrambles after him, hauling several blankets over and tossing a few of them onto Jason.

“...Well, that’s one way to do it,” Bruce comments lightly.

There’s the sound of something rolling in the hallway, and then Alfred and Dr. Thompkins push a rather large, formidable-looking machine into the den. Tim tenses a little, staring at it, but Bruce takes a seat on the arm of the couch and places a hand on the back of Tim’s neck. It’s... weirdly soothing.

“Hi, Leslie,” Bruce says, smiling warmly.

“Bruce,” Dr. Thompkins replies as she maneuvers the machine past the coffee table. Straightening up, she plants her hands on her hips. “It’s good to see you, though I wish it were under better circumstances.” Her gaze softens as she glances over at Tim. “Hi, Tim. How are you feeling?”

Tim shrugs. “I’m fine,” he mumbles in the general direction of the coffee table.

She nods. “And how’s your nose?”

Another shrug.

“Okay, well, based on what Bruce told me and the look of your nose, I can tell you right now that it’s almost certainly broken. However, I’m going to have to check it out and take a few x-rays to figure out the extent of the damage. Does that sound good?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Tim says quietly.

Dr. Thompkins nods. “Good. Now, here’s how this is going to go. I’m going to pull this machine over and put a lead apron on you, which is standard procedure for taking x-rays. The lead makes sure that the x-ray radiation is only going to your head and blocks it from the rest of you,” she explains. Thankfully, she speaks slowly enough that Tim can mostly process what she’s saying. “Small doses of x-ray radiation, such as what you’re about to get, are harmless. However, it’s still a good idea to make sure that we aren’t exposing your entire body to unnecessary radiation when we only need to look at your head. In order to take the picture, we’ll put a wireless x-ray plate behind your head. The machine will make a few weird noises, and then it’ll be done imaging your nose. Do you have any questions or anything that you’re worried about?”

He thinks for a moment, but his brain is too fuzzy to come up with anything. “No, I’m good. Thank you.”

“All right. Let me get this thing into position…” With Alfred’s help, Dr. Thompkins pushes the machine so it’s right in front of Tim.

Bruce takes an apron covered in a weird synthetic plastic-y material and carefully drapes it on Tim. It’s weirdly heavy. “There you go,” he says and ruffles Tim’s hair fondly. Dr. Thompkins passes him a thick white plastic plate that Bruce presses between Tim’s head and the couch cushion. “Try to stay still, okay?”

“Okay,” Tim says quietly.

Bruce smiles at him before retreating to stand next to the machine.

“The machine is going to make a few noises. It might be a little loud, okay?” Dr. Thompkins says. “All right, we’re going to start now. Three, two, one, go.”

The machine makes two weird clunking sounds and then she nods. “Okay, the first one is done. Bruce, could you please--?”

Bruce steps forward and kneels in front of Tim, taking the plastic plate behind Tim’s head. “Can you turn your head to the side for me, sweetie? There you go, that’s good.” He tucks the plate securely behind Tim’s head and steps back again.

Dr. Thompkins takes another x-ray and they repeat the process once more with the other side of Tim’s head. Finally, Bruce takes the heavy lead apron off of Tim and the x-ray plate from behind his head. “Good job, buddy,” he says warmly.

Tim nods a little and shrinks into his blanket burrito. Bruce presses a kiss to the top of his head before setting everything back on top of the machine. He then takes his previous place next to Tim, draping an arm around his shoulders.

Lips pursed, Dr. Thompkins and Alfred peer at something on the x-ray machine’s screen. “Well, Tim, your nose is certainly broken,” Dr. Thompkins says lightly.

“I’ll say,” Alfred adds.

Bruce nods as if he was expecting this. “Ouch,” he says with a wince, lightly squeezing Tim’s shoulder.

“I’ll go ahead and set your nose now,” Dr. Thompkins says and Alfred pulls a chair over from the table in the corner for her. “Oh, thank you,” she tells him as she takes a seat in front of Tim.

Tim watches her warily, leaning into Bruce a little, but she doesn’t try to reach out and touch him just yet. Instead, she clasps her hands in her lap.

“Have you ever had your nose set before?” Tim shakes his head and Dr. Thompkins nods. “All right. So, here’s how this is going to go. I’m going to give you a nasal spray to numb your nose and then I’m going to set it. You’ll likely hear a crack and feel some pressure, but the spray should keep it from hurting. After that, my part here will be done. You’ll have to ice your nose for 10 minutes on and 15 minutes off. Bruce will help keep track of that for you. Do you have any questions for us?”

“Nope,” Tim replies.

Alfred passes Bruce a metal bowl full of cut-up strips of what looks like… t-shirt material? “Your nose might start bleeding again after we set it,” Bruce explains when he catches Tim looking.

Dr. Thompkins scoots her chair closer and leans forward, bracing her knees on her elbows. “Can you pass me the-- oh, thank you, Alfred.” She shakes the nasal spray and shows it to Tim. “I’m going to spray this in your nose to numb it. Ready?”

Tim nods a little and Bruce’s hand creeps onto the back of his neck, steadying him. Dr. Thompkins administers the nasal spray and Tim blinks at the weird sensation. He raises a hand to touch his nose, but Bruce catches it in one hand before he can do it.

“I don’t want you accidentally touching your nose and hurting it,” he says gently. “You can’t feel your nose right now, so you won’t know how much pressure you’re actually using.”

“Oh,” Tim says, trying to scrunch his nose. It feels _weird_ , like there’s a marshmallow on his face instead of a nose. “Okay.”

Dr. Thompkins sets the nasal spray aside. “The numbness should be instantaneous, so I think we’re good to go. Are you ready, Tim?”

“I guess?”

She smiles and leans forward, gently taking his face in her hands. “I’m going to count down from three and then set your nose on zero, okay? Three, two, one, zero.”

Her hands move and there’s a weird crunching noise and an absolutely bizarre sensation of stuff inside his nose _moving_. Tim blinks, and then it’s over and Dr. Thompkins is standing up. There’s something warm and wet running down his face and Bruce gently holds a tissue against Tim’s nose to catch the blood.

“Well, I’m done here. Bruce, you know the drill. Ice, painkillers, and call me if anything looks weird. Think you can take over here?” Dr. Thompkins asks, head cocked.

Bruce smiles. “I think we’re good.”

Her answering smile is soft and slightly crooked. “I know it’s hard for you, but try to stay out of trouble, all right?”

Still smiling, Bruce nearly rolls his eyes. “I’ll do my best.”

Dr. Thompkins laughs and peels off her gloves, dropping them in the trash, before she pats Alfred’s shoulder. “In that case, I’m going to head out. Try to avoid making Alfred’s blood pressure spike.”

Alfred smiles wryly. “I’ve been saying that for years, but it hasn’t worked yet. Perhaps the hundred something-th time is the charm.”

She waves at all of them, receiving a thumbs up from Jason and a wave from Dick in reply, before leaving. Bruce tosses the now-bloody tissue into the trash can next to his leg and carefully inspects Tim’s nose.

“She did a good job, as always,” he remarks as he pulls on a pair of latex gloves. “I’m going to try to clean up some of the blood, okay?”

“Okay,” Tim replies, watching carefully as Bruce takes a piece of fabric from the edge of the bowl, wets it in the bowl of water, and starts gently dabbing at Tim’s upper lip.

It takes a few minutes to fully clean the blood off of Tim’s face. To be honest, it’s kind of weird to just sit there as Bruce wipes at his face with a slight furrow in his brow. Tim tangles his hands in his blankets and waits until Bruce finally inspects Tim’s face and nods.

“I think we got the last of it,” he says, gently wiping the residual water off of Tim’s face with a clean, dry piece of fabric. “You should be good to go, sport.”

Tim nods a little and pulls his blankets up further so only his head is poking out of the soft, warm cocoon. “Thank you, Bruce,” he says automatically because it’s the polite thing to do.

Bruce smiles as he hands the bowl to Alfred and takes off his gloves. “Of course, kiddo. It was my pleasure.” He ruffles Tim’s hair before leaning back against the couch, throwing an arm around Tim’s shoulders. “Jaylad, Dick, you can come back now if you want.”

“I don’t wanna move,” Jason grumbles from his pile of blankets on the other couch. “‘m too cozy. If I move, I’m gonna have to let the cold, harsh air touch my mortal flesh. I can’t do it, B. I’m not strong enough.”

“Are you sure about that?” Dick asks casually.

Jason tries to kick him from under the blankets, but Dick catches his foot easily. In one smooth movement, Dick hauls Jason onto his shoulders into a fireman’s carry and carries him over to the couch. He unceremoniously drops Jason next to Bruce before taking a seat on Tim’s other side.

Wriggling to sit upright, Jason sticks his tongue out at Dick, who gives him a shit-eating grin in return. Jason sighs and leans against Bruce, tucking his head onto his dad’s shoulder. Dick grabs a blanket from the ground and drapes it over himself before settling in for more Bob’s Burgers.

* * *

Hours pass and the mass of people shifts. At some point, Dick ends up on the floor next to Ace with his legs resting against the couch’s arm. Jason leans back against Bruce and throws his legs over the same armrest as Dick. On Bruce’s other side, Tim ends up with a blanket thrown over his legs as he uses Bruce’s shoulder as a pillow. With each episode, it’s getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open. The thing marking the passage of time is the occasional gentle sound of chimes from the timer on Bruce’s phone to remind them to change Tim’s ice pack.

“Tim.”

“Mmmf,” Tim mumbles into Bruce’s shoulder.

“Tim.” A hand gently strokes Tim’s hair. “Hey, buddy. Do you want to go to bed soon?”

Blinking drowsily, Tim extracts himself from Bruce’s shoulder and rubs at his eyes. “I-- yeah, I guess?” The ice pack falls off his nose and he sighs but doesn’t bother picking it back up.

“On bad nights, sometimes Dick and Jason like having a slumber party on my bed. You’re more than welcome to join us if you’d like,” Bruce casually offers, still petting Tim’s hair. “There’s plenty of room and we’d be happy to have you.”

Tim looks down at his hands. While a slumber party does sound fun, he would hate to intrude on family bonding time. Besides, he’s not a baby. He doesn’t need to be-- coddled, or pitied. He can take care of himself. After all, he came out of the field trip relatively unscathed. He’ll be fine.

“Oh, that’s all right,” he deflects. “I don’t want to bother you. Thank you, though.”

Bruce frowns slightly and turns to fully face Tim, his hand falling to rest on Tim’s shoulder. “You’re never a bother, Tim. We’d love for you to join in.”

Tim shrugs half-heartedly and stands up, brushing off Bruce’s hand. “It’s okay, I’ll manage.”

“You should take Ace with you,” Dick suggests from where he’s lying on the floor. “He’d like the company, I think.”

“Okay,” Tim acquiesces, too tired to fight. “Ace, come.” He pats his thigh and Ace stands up, trotting happily over to Tim. “Good boy,” Tim tells him, petting his head.

“Good night!” Dick calls as Tim pads out of the den, followed closely by Jason’s “G’night, Timbo!”

Ace hops onto Tim’s bed as he numbly goes through the motions of getting ready for bed. However, there’s a knock on the door just as he’s climbing into bed.

“Come in,” Tim calls as he slides under the covers.

The door opens and Dick slips in, taking a seat in the armchair near Tim’s bed. “Hey,” he says in greeting. “How are you feeling?”

Tim shrugs under the covers. “I don’t know. Tired?”

Dick regards him with sharp eyes that feel like they’re able to slice through his skin and stare directly into his mind. Tim blinks and then the sharpness is hidden behind Dick’s easy smile. “I’ll bet. You’ve had a long day, huh?”

“I guess so, yeah.” He rolls over onto his side, watching Dick. “I don’t mean to be rude, but what are you doing?”

With a shrug, Dick swings both of his legs onto the armrest of the chair. “I thought you could use some company.”

Tim stares at him. “...What?”

“Well, you had a rough day, yeah? I figured that you might want someone to chill next to you for a while.”

“You don’t need to do that. I’ll be fine,” Tim defends, though he’s too tired to instill much force into his words.

Dick shrugs again. “Yeah, but I want to do it. If you really, truly want me to leave, then I’ll leave. Otherwise, I’ll stay here and chill with you.”

Tim doesn’t have a response for that, so he rolls onto his other side. “I’m going to sleep,” he announces.

“All right,” Dick replies, unfazed. “Want me to stay until you fall asleep?”

“...Okay,” he mumbles, pulling the blankets up to his chin.

Dick hums in response and pulls out his phone to type something in. Tim sets his head back down against the pillow with a soft thump as Dick presumably messes with his phone. Ace falls asleep quickly and huffs out little puppy snores from where he’s curled up next to Tim’s legs.

Sleep is slow to come to Tim, however. He stares up at his ceiling as Dick keeps a quiet vigil next to him until, finally, his mind blanks and exhaustion overtakes the residual buzzing in his body.

* * *

“You should’ve seen his smile, Dad, it was-- it was so cold. It wasn’t him, Tim wasn’t _there_ ,” Jason sobs into Bruce’s shoulder as they sit on his enormous bed. “It was _awful,_ Dad.”

Bruce’s heart hurts as he continues rubbing Jason’s back. “I know, sweetheart. I heard him too. I’m sorry,” he murmurs, watching helplessly as his son cries in his arms. “I’m going to talk to Tim about it tomorrow, but you shouldn’t have had to deal with that.”

Next to him, Alfred’s hand rests on Bruce’s shoulder, a reassuring anchor in the ocean of his child’s tears. Sometimes, Bruce wonders if it wouldn’t be easier to wrap up his children in heaps of blankets and stow them away somewhere safe where the world couldn’t hurt them. Still, that’s no way to live. He feels his children’s pain as if it was his own, but it would be cruel to shut them away like that. They deserve to live, he reminds himself. They need to be their own people; Bruce can’t control everything to keep them safe. Besides, happiness cannot exist without sadness and his children deserve to be happy.

Part of Bruce’s brain helpfully reminds him that he should call Dinah to book an extra long session for Jason and for himself this week, and probably for Dick too. He files the thought away for later and focuses on his son crying in his arms.

“I couldn’t even do anything,” Jason whispers helplessly, voice hoarse. “If I stayed with him, I could’ve protected him, but they sent me away. They _sent me away_ and there were guns everywhere and Tim was alone and I thought-- I thought he was gonna die.”

“Jaybird,” he says sadly, stroking Jason’s hair with one hand before kissing the top of his head.

“I thought-- I thought--” His son’s shoulders shake harder as he struggles to get out his next words. “It was going to end up like Ethiopia, like in the warehouse, except Tim was the one who was all alone and, and--” Jason’s breathing comes faster and faster.

“Jay,” Bruce rumbles, “Jason. Deep breaths. Breathe with me.” He slides one hand onto Jason’s sternum. With his other hand, he holds Jason’s hand over his own chest so he could feel Bruce’s slow, steady breathing.

Jason nods jerkily and, face still wet with tears, tries to force his breathing under control.

“You’re doing great, son,” Bruce soothes. “I’ve got you.”

Slowly but surely, they manage to coax Jason’s frantic breathing into calming. Once it seems like Jason has calmed down enough, Bruce resumes rubbing circles into Jason’s back.

Jason presses the backs of his hands against his eyes for a moment. “That sucked,” he croaks.

“Mmm.” Bruce kisses the crown of Jason’s head. “I can imagine. Can you name five things you can see?”

“Your shirt, you, Alfred,” Jason rattles off. “The bed. The walls.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “I’m okay, I’m okay. That wasn’t a flashback, just--”

“Hyperventilation,” Bruce finishes for him. “But you don’t need to be okay, sweetheart. I know that you were holding back some of this for Tim’s sake, but you don’t need to act like you’re fine if you’re not.”

Leaning against Bruce, Jason nods and falls silent. Bruce pulls him closer and rubs Jason’s back soothingly as he rests his head in the crook of Bruce’s neck.

“You are allowed to need us just as Master Tim and Master Dick are allowed to need us,” Alfred says gently. “We are able and willing to help all of you. If you’ll recall, both Master Bruce and I are perfectly capable of multitasking. My dear child, you don’t need to hide it when you need us.”

“You don’t need to take personal responsibility for Tim,” Bruce adds, stroking Jason’s hair. “You’re just a kid too, Jay. Alfred and I are the adults here and our job is to take care of you. I don’t want you to feel like you have to manage yourself _and_ Tim’s entire life and well-being on top of that.”

“I know,” Jason whispers as Alfred lightly places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sure you do, my boy, but we could all do with a little reminder sometimes,” Alfred replies easily.

There’s a light knock on Bruce’s bedroom door before Dick steps into the room, closing the door behind him. “Tim is asleep and Ace is with him,” he reports.

“How is he?” Bruce asks as Dick lays down next to him on the bed.

“He let me stay with him until he fell asleep, but he didn’t say much. I don’t think he’s really processed anything.”

Jason pulls away from Bruce and rubs at his eyes, which are still red from crying earlier. “Is there anything that I can do to help?”

Bruce sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose before forcing down his frustration with the situation. “Thank you, Dick. And Jason, you should be focusing on yourself, all right? You’re helping Tim just by being his friend.”

Dick makes grabby hands at Jason until, grumbling, he leans over and lets Dick pull him down to the mattress for a hug. “B is right, you know. After all, you were birdnapped today.”

“Birdnapped,” Jason repeats.

“Yep!” Dick wraps his arms securely around Jason and tucks his little brother’s head under his chin. Or perhaps Jason isn’t quite so little anymore; he’s almost the same height as Dick now. They should measure his height soon to see how much he’s grown.

Jason rolls his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Thank you,” Dick chirps as he settles down for a cuddle session. “It’s a shame that I didn’t get to punch the guys who nabbed you. I’m the only one allowed to mess with our Little Wing. Well, me, Tim, Alfred, and sometimes Bruce.”

Choking out a laugh, Jason lightly elbows Dick. “Screw you, Dickiebird.” Still, he doesn’t move to get away. Judging by the drowsy look in his eyes, he’s going to crash soon.

Bruce chuckles, shaking his head. “You two should go change into pajamas before you fall asleep in your clothes.”

Jason rolls off the bed and yawns so fiercely that his jaw cracks. “All right, all right, I’m going,” he mumbles, slipping into the hallway.

Dick waits until Jason leaves before he turns to Bruce, eyes gleaming. “Need me to go on patrol for you tonight?”

Shaking his head, Bruce replies, “I’d rather have all of you be out of danger and stay where I can keep an eye on you.”

Alfred pats his shoulder. “Gotham survived for many years before you decided to run around dressed up as a bat. I’d wager that it’ll last a few nights without you.”

“All right.” Dick pauses, watching Bruce carefully before nodding once. He darts forward to kiss Bruce on the cheek before slipping out of the room, silent as a shadow.

As soon as Dick is out of earshot, Bruce releases a sigh and rubs at his face. “How do I--?” He turns to Alfred and makes a wild gesture. “They’re just kids, Alf,” he says helplessly. “I want them to be happy and safe, but then shit like _this_ happens and I…” he trails off.

Alfred wraps an arm around Bruce’s shoulders and pulls him into his chest in a similar manner to how Bruce held Jason mere minutes ago. “My dear boy,” he says gently, “You are doing everything in your power to help them. You are the reason why they’re safe right now. The only thing you can do is your best.”

Bruce nods and leans his head against Alfred’s shoulder the same way he did when Bruce was having a bad day when he was younger. “I just don’t like seeing them hurt,” he says miserably.

“I know,” Alfred murmurs. “But you’re helping them heal. You’re doing all right, my boy.” He presses a kiss to Bruce’s hairline.

They stay like that, with Alfred rubbing Bruce’s shoulder comfortingly, until Dick bounces back into the room with Jason trailing slowly after him. Dick immediately jumps onto the bed and sprawls out on his stomach. Jason shuffles over and tips over until he falls onto the mattress, where he curls up into a ball.

Alfred stands up and places a hand on Bruce’s cheek. “Do let me know if you need anything.”

Bruce frowns. “You need your sleep too,” he points out. “I can handle things myself if anything comes up.”

This earns him a raised eyebrow and a very pointed look. “Master Bruce,” Alfred begins, “You will always be my child. Please allow me to help you if you need it, yes?”

Finally, Bruce nods and drops his head in acquiescence. Alfred hums and kisses the top of his head. “Good night, my boy,” he says fondly.

“Good night, Alf,” Bruce responds.

Smiling faintly, Alfred closes the door behind himself with a soft click.

Bruce stands up, ignoring how his knees crack, and grabs a fresh pair of pajamas from his dresser. “Don’t burn down my room,” he calls over his shoulder as he pads into the bathroom.

“We make no promises!” Dick calls back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you to [S](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolateandsilver) and [goldkirk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldkirk/pseuds/goldkirk) for looking over this chapter! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who wished me well after the last chapter!! My brain seems like it's done with its little screaming dance for now, which is nice. I'd write more in this author's note but unfortunately, I have a headache (I'm going to refer you to when I reminded everyone to drink water at the beginning of this chapter lmao). I'm going to lay down for a bit and then work more on chapter 20 once I've drank more water and I'm feeling better. I love you all dearly and I'm glad that you're enjoying the fic!! <3 <3 <3


	14. i'll take your hand when thunder roars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Tim can't help himself. He just has to go and open his big mouth and-- and _say things_. Why can't he just shut up for once in his life?
> 
> Or: conversations are had, phone calls are made, and Bruce demonstrates his unnervingly in-depth knowledge of cave flora.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Walking the Wire by Imagine Dragons. 
> 
> [lobs this chapter at you and _runs_ ]
> 
> **CWs:** panic attacks, emotional abuse, references to abuse

The next morning finds Tim curled up on a sofa in the den with Ace. Somehow, he’s still drowsy even after sleeping through the whole night.

Well, perhaps “sleep” isn’t the right word. Tim fell asleep in much the same way that a brick falls to the floor: solidly, and abruptly. It was more like a temporary coma than true sleep and it left Tim groggy and still tired.

Dick is sprawled out next to Tim with one leg dangling over the armrest and the other thrown over the back of the sofa. “See, and bells are like money. You get a mortgage from a raccoon and you have to pay it off in bells,” he explains, holding his Nintendo Switch where Tim can see it.

“Hmm,” Tim says because sentences and words are hard.

Fortunately, Dick doesn’t seem to mind as he enthusiastically shows Tim how to fish in the game. Tim absentmindedly reaches over to pet Ace, who is happily snoozing on his other side.

Bruce wanders into the den just as Dick is proudly showing Tim all of the fossils that he’s collected. He hovers next to the sofa, hands in his pockets. “Hey, kids. What are you up to?”

Dick looks up from his game and grins. “I was just showing Tim how Animal Crossing works.”

Tim nods in agreement and scoots over to make room for Bruce on the couch. Bruce takes a seat on Tim’s other side, peering interestedly at Dick’s switch. “Isn’t that the game where the stocks are all carrots?”

“I think they’re turnips, actually,” Tim mumbles, pulling his blanket tighter around him.

“Huh,” Bruce says, rubbing his chin. “What’s the equivalent of the DOW Jones? Is it a carrot taster or something?”

“ _Dad_ ,” Dick groans, poking Bruce’s shoulder with his foot.

Tim can’t help but crack a small smile. “That would be the internet, probably. I’ve seen people online talking about exchanging turnips for stuff.”

“Like real life stuff?” Bruce asks, intrigued.

With a shrug, Tim scratches behind Ace’s ears. “I guess so, yeah.”

“Hmmm,” Bruce says, and then adds, “You know, if you want to play Animal Crossing, I could always get you your own copy.”

Tim glances over at Bruce before looking back down at Ace. “I don’t know,” he hedges, “I don’t want to make you go through all of that effort for me.”

Dick reaches over to nudge Tim with one foot. “It’s just a game, it’s not a lot of effort. Besides, we love you and want to help,” he says gently.

There’s a pause and then Bruce ever so lightly places his hand on Tim’s shoulder. It doesn’t stop Tim from initially flinching away, but he forces himself to relax. “Tim,” Bruce says slowly, his voice steady, “I will always be willing to try for you. You’re not a burden, buddy.”

Looking at Bruce out of the corner of his eye, Tim draws his knees up to his chest. It sounds like Bruce has a point he’s trying to make, so Tim stays quiet and merely watches him. Finally, Bruce leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees as he meets Tim’s gaze.

“I wanted to talk to you about more long-term plans,” Bruce begins.

“Didn’t I already agree to stay here until my parents return?” Tim interjects quickly.

Bruce nods. “You did,” he agrees, “But your situation has changed since we last talked about that.”

Frowning, Tim twists to fully face Bruce. “What do you mean?”

Ever-patient, Bruce replies, “Do you remember how I talked to Jim Gordon yesterday before we left the museum?”

It rings a bell, even if the actual memory itself is kind of fuzzy. Tim nods anyways. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Jim told me that neither Two-Face nor the police were able to contact your parents,” Bruce explains carefully.

“So? They probably didn’t have cell service or something,” Tim points out hastily.

“The police also weren’t able to find evidence of any sort of legal guardian who is supposed to be taking care of you in your parents’ absence.”

Bristling, Tim sinks his fingers into the blanket around his shoulders. “There’s Mrs. Mac,” he says quickly. “Besides, I don’t see how this is a problem. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“Mrs. Mac is only a maid, not a guardian. She only visits three days a week,” Bruce counters. “And the fact that being completely unsupervised is so normal for you is part of the problem.”

“Well, maybe I like being unsupervised,” Tim retorts, eyes narrowing. “I actually like being alone, so. Yeah.”

“You’re allowed to like being alone, but there should still be someone who you can come to if you need help,” Dick points out, meeting Tim’s gaze with his calm blue eyes. “A safety net, of sorts.”

Tim stands up and turns around to face both of them. “I don’t need a safety net.”

“Everyone needs a safety net,” Dick replies easily. “I’m nineteen, but Bruce and Alfred are still my safety nets. They’re there for me when I need help.”

Scowling, Tim clenches his fists so hard in the blankets that his knuckles turn white. He’s not a baby, he doesn’t need help! He can handle it. Why can’t anybody see that? Why can’t they just leave him alone? “Well, I don’t need help. I’m doing fine on my own.”

“You could have been seriously injured yesterday, Tim,” Bruce says softly, eyes dark and pained. “Nobody could get a hold of your parents and Drake Industries has a policy of not paying ransom for hostages.”

Tim smiles, but his mouth feels hard and jagged even as his chest fills with white-hot fire. “Well, I wasn’t injured. I had the situation under control.”

Bruce leans forward and tries to place a hand on Tim’s arm, but he steps out of reach. “If Superman and Batman didn’t intervene when they did, you could’ve been shot or worse.”

Dick is watching him with worried eyes and Tim barely manages to suppress a hoarse laugh. It’s a little bit funny to hear Bruce talk about Batman as if he’s a separate person from Bruce Wayne. Instead, Tim shakes his head, smile twisting into a frown. “I had it under _control._ Nothing happened.”

“Two-Face punched you in the face and broke your nose,” Dick says quietly.

“And?” Tim shoots back. “It was just my face. I’m fine now, it could’ve been worse.”

Dick’s eyes flicker to Bruce, but Bruce is busy staring worriedly up at Tim.

“Tim,” Bruce murmurs pleadingly, leaning forward and resting more of his weight on his elbows, “They had guns and they weren’t able to get your parents _or_ their company to pay the ransom. There was a very, very real chance of them shooting you.”

Tim scoffs and clutches the blanket around his shoulders. His chest and head feel hot like he’s burning from the inside out. Everything in his head is moving so fast and he’s just so _angry_. “Oh, yeah?” he challenges, eyes blazing. “I’ve been shot at before and I ended up fine. You’re just afraid to admit that I’m actually competent.”

His words achieve their intended effect; both Bruce and Dick look like they’ve been slapped. Dick is the first to recover as an air of calmness masks the distress that was written all over his face only moments before. Bruce is still blinking in surprise as he processes the new information.

“Tim,” Dick begins, voice held carefully even. He places one hand on Bruce’s shoulder and holds his other hand out to Tim, but he doesn’t take it. “You were shot at before?”

Tim shrugs and stares at Ace instead of looking at Dick. Shit, he shouldn’t have said that. “Nothing,” he lies. “I was exaggerating.”

At last, Bruce recovers and slides off the couch so he can kneel in front of Tim. “Hey, champ,” he says softly. His earlier shock is gone from his face, leaving only a gentle steadiness. “Can you tell me more?”

The blanket partially slips off Tim’s shoulders and he clutches it harder to keep it from completely falling off. He bites his lip and immediately feels like a child, so he looks at Bruce instead. “It was nothing,” he tries, willing Bruce to buy the excuse.

Unfazed, Bruce hardly blinks as he waits, watching Tim with sharp eyes.

Tim stares at the ground as the burning anger drains out of him, leaving him feeling hollow and quiet. Picking at loose thread on the blanket, he finally says, “I was in Gotham at night. I made noise when I shouldn’t have and it startled some guys. They started shooting, so I ran.”

Slowly, so slowly, Bruce extends his arm until he can lightly lay his hand on Tim’s arm. Tim flinches away out of pure instinct before he forces himself to still, leaning ever so slightly into Bruce’s hand. He rubs soothing circles into Tim’s arm with his thumb. Without breaking eye contact, Bruce asks, “Why were you in Gotham at night?”

Tim hesitates, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he stares at the rug. This feels like a trap. No matter what he says, he’s just going to get yelled at. He’s surprised that Bruce hasn’t tried to ground him yet or take away his phone.

“I promise that no matter what, you’re not going to be in trouble. We’re asking what happened because we want to make sure that you’re safe,” Bruce says calmly, his hand still on Tim’s arm. With his other hand, he reaches up towards Tim’s face, presumably to brush his hair out of his eyes. However, the sudden motion near Tim’s face makes him freeze as he braces himself to be hit.

Bruce lowers his hand, something deeply sad in his eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmurs. “You’re safe here, Tim.”

Tim nods and stares at the ground, eyes pricking with tears. Why does he feel like he wants to cry? Hands tangled in his blanket, Tim clenches his jaw to try to stay silent, but then the truth surges out like a dam bursting. “I like to take pictures,” he says in a rush. “Of Gotham. And sometimes, I--”

He sighs in frustration, but Bruce stays silent and keeps patiently rubbing circles into his arm. It feels like Tim will explode if he doesn’t say something, so he switches tracks and says, “The police, they don’t really care. They hurt more than they help and-- I just want to help. And Batman wants to help too, but he’s only one person and the city is so big, so I--” Tim takes a deep breath before continuing, “I go around the city and keep an eye on things, sometimes. I take pictures of-- I don’t know. Arms deals, crime family business. Stuff like that. My camera has really good resolution when it zooms in, it’s not like I’m getting close to the real action or anything.”

He risks a glance up and finds both Bruce and Dick watching him calmly. They look-- not angry and they’re not yelling at him. Maybe… maybe he could tell them about the rest of it? But Tim’s mouth makes the decision before his brain can and then he’s saying, “But sometimes, if it’s a slow night, I like to--”

His face is warm. Tim presses his hands to his cheeks and breathes in, breathes out, and then mumbles, “It would be easier to show you. My laptop, can you--”

Dick wordlessly passes Tim his laptop. Tim takes a seat on the couch, perched on the edge of the cushion just in case he needs to run. Bruce sits down, leaving a careful space between himself and Tim. All too aware of their eyes on him, Tim opens his laptop and navigates to the folder that is carefully buried in his desktop.

“This might take a minute,” he warns before clicking on the folder. A field comes up for him to input his password and then another security field pops up to ask _where is the best vantage point in Gotham?_ (The answer is the gargoyles on the edge of the Bowery, obviously.)

It takes a few minutes for Tim to input passwords and unravel each layer of encryption with shaking hands until the contents of the folder finally pop up on his screen. Folders upon folders, all meticulously labeled and organized by date, fill his screen. His brain is too preoccupied with screaming _bad, bad, bad, danger_ at him instead of helping him remember which folder is which, so he opens one at random. Rows of pictures of Gotham’s star-studded skyline stare back at him. There’s also the familiar blue of Nightwing’s uniform, Robin throwing his head back and laughing, Batman swinging from building to building with his cape trailing him like a living shadow.

“Here,” Tim says, shoving his computer at Bruce and clasping his hands in his lap. He stares at his hands rather than risking a glance at Bruce or Dick’s faces and tries to focus on not throwing up.

“Did you take all of these yourself?” Dick asks, craning his neck to look at the computer screen without leaning too close to Tim. “These are really good.”

Mouth dry, Tim nods. Seconds stretch into forever as he stares at his lap. His chest feels tight, like a giant is squeezing it, and his head is still screaming. He tenses, waiting for Bruce to lecture him, to yell, to get angry.

At last, Bruce finally speaks. “Tim,” he says gently.

“Sorry,” Tim replies reflexively. “Sorry.” He’s not entirely sure what he’s apologizing for, but there’s surely something that he did wrong.

“Tim,” Bruce says again, still painfully gentle, “You aren’t in trouble and I’m not angry at you. You’re very talented.” Tim’s eyes start to prick with tears as Bruce continues, “I’m only worried about your safety. You were shot at, sweetheart. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“My ankle,” Tim forces out as the truth spills out from his tongue, “I sprained it while I was running away. I had to keep running on it or else-- they were following me, for a bit. Didn’t want to risk them catching up.”

“Tim? Are you okay?” Dick says, concerned, and Tim dimly realizes that his breath is now coming in gasps.

“Hey, buddy,” Bruce soothes and Tim finds himself automatically shifting his attention to Bruce. That’s his Batman voice, but it’s the one that he uses for injured civilians and frightened kids. “I want you to focus on your breathing. We’re going to count your breaths together. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

Tim makes a distressed sound and shakes his head frantically. He needs to do-- something, anything, to stop every alarm in his head from blaring _ALERT, DANGER, DANGER, DANGER_. Curling up, Tim pulls his knees up to his forehead and tries to breathe around the tightness in his chest.

“You’re gonna be mad,” he gasps. “I’m gonna get in trouble and, and--”

“We’re not mad and you’re not in trouble,” Dick counters calmly. Tim shakes his head in response, wrapping his arms around his knees.

“I’m going to put my hand on your back,” Bruce says, and then there’s a hand lightly resting between his shoulder blades. “I’m going to count breaths for you and I want you to match your breathing to it as well as you can, okay?” Voice still low and gentle, Bruce begins to count. The hand on Tim’s back moves up as he inhales and down as he exhales, steady as the sea.

“You’re doing great, Tim,” Dick says earnestly. “You can hold my hand if that would help. It helps me, sometimes.” He offers one hand to Tim and Tim isn’t a baby, he doesn’t need his hand to be held. But then the panic in his head reaches a crescendo and Tim reaches out blindly, grasping Dick’s hand like a lifeline. Dick squeezes back and Tim closes his eyes to keep himself from crying.

Eyes squeezed shut, Tim whispers, “I don’t want to get in trouble, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry--”

“You’re not in trouble, Tim,” Bruce murmurs. “I’m not mad at you and you’re not in trouble. You’re safe here.”

Both Dick and Bruce continue to provide a steady stream of reassurances as Tim struggles to keep himself from crying or throwing up or both. Slowly, his breathing calms and the alarms in his head quiet until they’re no longer screaming at him. His chest is still a little tight, but at least he can breathe again. Letting go of Dick’s hand, Tim wraps his arms more securely around his knees.

“There you go,” Bruce says gently, hand still rubbing Tim’s back. “Feeling better now?”

Tim makes a noise in response before remembering that he should actually verbally reply when he’s asked a question. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Sorry.”

Bruce opens his arms in a silent question and slowly, giving Tim time to move away, leans forward and wraps Tim in a hug. “You don’t need to apologize, especially over something like a panic attack. It’s okay, sport. I’ve got you.” He tucks Tim under his chin and Tim isn’t a baby who needs to be comforted, but the hug is nice enough that Tim allows it. For now, at least.

They stay like that until Tim decides that he’s had enough and wriggles away. Bruce lets him go and watches as Tim picks up his laptop again.

“These pictures aren’t that good. I have some better ones that I can find if I just…” Tim mumbles as he scrolls through the folders of photos. Finally, he finds a folder dated from February a year ago. “Here,” he says, opening the folder and passing his computer over to Bruce. Since Bruce already saw his photographs, Tim might as well show him the good ones.

Bruce takes the computer and peers at it. “These are from when Batman and Robin fought Mr. Freeze in Puckett Park,” Tim explains. “It was kind of tricky to get any good shots because the light reflecting off the ice sometimes shone right into my lens, but I ended up getting a few nice pictures out of it.”

“I’ll say,” Dick breathes as he pulls up a picture of Robin launching a sweeping kick at Mr. Freeze. The kick sent powdery snow flying into the air and the streetlights gave it a light rainbowy sheen. There’s another picture of Batman dodging a blast from the freeze gun as Robin ambushes Mr. Freeze by dropping down from one of the walls of ice, cape streaming out behind him.

“You’re an excellent photographer, Tim,” Bruce says warmly.

Warmth bursts in Tim’s chest at the praise and he ducks his head, staring at his hands. “Thank you.”

Bruce rubs Tim’s back some more and then continues, “It must have taken a lot of practice to build up your skills.”

Tim shrugs. “I guess,” he mumbles.

“How long have you been taking photography in Gotham like this?”

“A while,” he replies vaguely, picking at a thread on his jeans to avoid looking at Bruce.

“Do your parents know?” Bruce asks carefully.

Tim looks up, eyes narrowing as he stares Bruce down. Bruce meets his gaze easily, face calm, before Tim gives in and glances away. He almost expects Bruce or Dick to say something, but they both stay silent. Is this an interrogation tactic? Do they use it when they’re out as Batman and Nightwing?

Hands restless, Tim goes back to toying with the loose thread on his jeans. Finally, when he can’t stand the silence anymore, he mutters, “They don’t know.”

“Hmmm,” Bruce says. Tim can practically hear the gears turning in his head. “Have you heard from your parents since yesterday?”

Blinking in surprise, Tim lifts his head to frown at Bruce. “No. Why?”

His eyes soften, but the rest of his face remains as calm and steady as before. Bruce carefully extends a hand and rests it on Tim’s shoulder. “Remember how I said that the police weren’t able to contact any of your legal guardians?”

Tim’s frown deepens. “Yes?” Whatever Bruce is getting at, Tim doesn’t like this line of questioning.

“The police are mandated reporters, Tim, and you’re technically a thirteen year old without a legal guardian around to help you,” Bruce says gently and oh no. Oh no.

“No,” Tim snaps even as another wave of panic rises in his stomach. “No, I’m fine, it’s fine. They can’t-- they can’t do anything.” To his dismay, he feels himself start to tear up again. “I don’t want--” His voice cracks and Tim rubs at his eyes.

Dick reaches out and wraps an arm around Tim’s shoulders. “Hey, hey, it’ll be okay. We’re going to help you figure this out,” he soothes.

“You’ll tell them to go away?” Tim asks hotly. “Gotham’s foster care system is terrible and underfunded. I’m not stupid, I’ve heard the stories about how kids get lost in it all the time. They can’t make me-- you can’t let them take me away,” he finishes a little desperately.

With a gentle hand, Bruce clasps Tim’s shoulder. “If it comes to that, I promise that I won’t let you go into the system by yourself. I’m going to be here for you every step of the way, okay?” He meets Tim’s eyes with a steady gaze like a rock in a storm.

“Okay,” Tim says, feeling very small all of a sudden.

Dick leans over a bit so he can rest his head on top of Tim’s. It’s bizarrely comforting. “We’re not going to abandon you, Tim. Bruce always has a plan. Right, Bruce?”

Bruce nods seriously. “Right. We have options. I’ll go through them with you, okay?”

Tim nods and curls into Dick’s side a little.

“All right. First things first-- whatever happens, I will handle all of the logistics for you. I don’t want you worrying over all of the details. We have lawyers and other professionals to help handle those things, okay?” Bruce rubs his thumb over Tim’s shoulder. “We’ll take care of you, Tim.”

“Yeah, okay.” Tim whispers.

“One possibility is that you won’t be removed from your home, but some Child Protection and Permanency officials will work with your parents to make sure that you’re being properly taken care of. We don’t have as much control over whether you’re allowed to stay with your parents or not, but we can control where you end up. Okay?”

“I-- my parents haven’t done anything wrong,” Tim mumbles, staring at his hands. “They’re just busy, is all. Sometimes they forget stuff, but I can take care of myself just fine.”

Dick kisses the top of his head. “I know you can, Timbo. You’re very smart and you’ve taught yourself a lot, but this is the second time that you’ve been injured and nobody could reach your parents,” he explains gently. “What if you had gotten more seriously injured but we couldn’t reach your parents to have them authorize medical care for you?”

“Dr. Thompkins saw me for my sprained ankle and my broken nose when my parents weren’t around,” Tim points out.

“Those were emergencies because you needed x-rays,” Bruce replies calmly. “Leslie was willing to overlook it, but hospitals have to be more strict about those sorts of things to avoid lawsuits. Since the police got involved yesterday, they’ll also be concerned about legal logistics like that.”

“Oh,” Tim says quietly.

“Let us worry about the logistics, okay? We’ll take care of it for you.” Bruce gently squeezes his shoulder and then continues, “Another option is that we can find people who I trust to take you in long-term. You wouldn’t go through the foster care system and we’ll make sure that you don’t fall through the cracks.”

“All right,” Tim says quietly, glancing up at Bruce. “What are my other options?”

“Well,” Bruce says, “If you’re willing, you could stay here with us. Since you already know me and you’ve stayed with us for a while, we could argue that I’m a friend of the family and foster you long-term. We’d love to have you stay with us. If you wanted, we could do something more permanent like adoption, but you don’t have to worry about that right now.”

Tim blinks. That sounds-- not terrible, actually, but he still doesn’t like the idea of being taken away from his parents. He has his home, and his room, and his _life_. Even if he’s already stayed at Wayne Manor for a few months, the idea of something more permanent is-- unnerving.

“Do I have to decide right now?” he asks carefully.

Bruce shakes his head. “You don’t have to make a decision right away,” he soothes. “I just want you to know your options so we’re prepared for if something does happen, all right?”

“All right.” Tim rubs at his eyes in an effort to wipe away the tears gathering there. Why does he feel like crying? “Thank you for helping,” he mumbles, because thanking Bruce is the proper thing to do.

“Of course, buddy,” Bruce replies, reaching out to gently ruffle Tim’s hair. “I’m going to be here to help you through every step of this, okay? Let me handle the details. Right now, your job is to work on feeling better and to have fun.”

Tim bites the inside of his cheek. He has other responsibilities too: he has his work Gotham’s Shadow, writing his LinkedIn Jeffrey Anderson articles, schoolwork…. Still, something tells him that Bruce won’t back down here.

“Okay,” he mumbles.

“And Tim, one more thing?” Bruce says gently, absently smoothing Tim’s hair back down. “Let me preface this by saying that you’re not in trouble, but I can tell by the dates on your photos that you took them while you were staying here with us.”

Tim ducks his head and stays quiet. No sense in opening his mouth and getting himself in more trouble.

“We can talk about my concerns about you roaming around Gotham at night by yourself later, but for now, can you promise me that you’ll let us know if you’re planning on going back there?” Bruce asks as he tries to meet Tim’s eyes.

He sounds sincere enough, so Tim shrugs. “All right,” he agrees.

With a sigh, Bruce opens his arms and gently reels Tim in for a hug. Tim blinks in surprise but allows Bruce to tuck his head under Bruce’s chin nonetheless.

“Thank you,” Bruce murmurs into Tim’s hair before planting a kiss on the top of his head. “Do you remember what I told you a while ago about calling me at any time if you need help?”

Tim leans against Bruce and lets himself be comforted like a child. It’s kind of uncomfortable, but it’s also kind of nice. “Yeah?”

“That will always be true. No matter where you are, no matter what, you can always call me for whatever you need. I want you to be able to rely on us, sport.” Bruce strokes Tim’s hair. “And I know that you might not believe us yet, but we’ll always be there for you.”

Tim stays silent and listens to the soft _thump-thump-thump_ of Bruce’s heart until he’s finally released from the embrace. A pang of… something echoes through his chest. Sadness, maybe? But why would Tim be sad?

Bruce smiles softly at Tim and rests one hand on his shoulder. “You really are very talented, Tim. If you want, we could look into photoshoot locations for you. I’m sure that there will be lots of nice places to take photos after we get our first snow.”

At that, Bruce stands up and squeezes Tim’s shoulder. “I’ll let you and Dick get back to your video games. I think Jason is in his room if you want me to send him your way.”

A little dazed at the mention of finding photoshoot locations, Tim nods. “Yeah-- sure, okay.”

Bruce smiles and slips out of the room.

Four minutes later, Jason hops into the room and plops down on the couch. “Hey, dorks. Wanna play some Mario Kart?”

* * *

“Hey Tim, watch this,” Dick says casually as he switches to holding his controller with one hand so he can extend his other hand towards Jason.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Jason warns, leaning away from Dick’s wiggling fingers. “If you tickle me, I’m going to fucking kill you, I swear to--”

His words end up in a yelp as Dick launches a ferocious one-handed tickle attack. Giggling uncontrollably, Jason drops his controller and flops onto the floor, squirming.

“Fuck you!” he manages to get out amongst his laughter.

Grinning triumphantly, Dick’s controller joins Jason’s on the floor as he starts tickling his brother with both hands. Jason laughs hysterically, socked feet flailing as he clumsily tries to kick Dick away.

To no one’s surprise, Tim ends up getting first place in the race.

* * *

Tim’s parents rarely call, preferring to send him random emails instead. Therefore, Tim is appropriately surprised when his phone rings two days after the Field Trip From Hell and the caller ID displays _Janet Drake._

“Hang on, I need to take this,” he tells Jason, hopping off Jason’s bed and wandering into the hallway.

Mouth full of cheetos, Jason shoots him a thumbs up and keeps playing Minecraft as Tim closes the door behind himself.

Hitting the _accept call_ button, Tim holds his phone up to his ear. “Mom?”

“Tim! There you are,” his mother says breathlessly. “We haven’t had cell reception in days, but now we’re getting all of these calls about you being held hostage at an art museum? Some policemen explained what happened. Honestly, Timmy, we were so worried when we first heard!”

Of course his parents were worried about him. They’re his parents! That won’t stop Tim from feeling bad about bothering them, though. “Sorry,” he says instinctively before adding, “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

His mother says. “Timothy Jackson Drake.”

Tim automatically tenses as fire fills his chest; she sounds upset. “Yes?”

“We worry about you, Timothy. You can’t just run around putting yourself in danger! What you did was reckless and irresponsible. We expected better from you.”

“Sorry,” Tim says reflexively. “I’m really sorry, Mom.” Absently, he notes that his feet are carrying him down the hallway. He should probably try to find a room to duck into so nobody walks into his mother’s impromptu lecture.

“You’d better be sorry, young man. You know better than this. Your father and I raised you to be better than this,” she admonishes.

He ends up in an infrequently used hallway and pushes open a wooden door that leads to an old study. Tim faintly recalls stumbling upon it when he was still searching for some secret room that could serve as Batman’s headquarters. Despite what surely must be Alfred’s best efforts, its lack of use means that it’s as dusty as anything in the manor gets. Most of the furniture is draped with white sheets and the curtains are drawn tightly to block out sunlight.

Wandering over to an old wooden desk, Tim takes a seat on it as his mother continues her lecture. She sighs, voice softening. “You’re a Drake, honey. Your actions are a reflection of your father and I as well as Drake Industries. Your father and I have been lenient with you in the past, but we need to prepare you for the real world. You’re thirteen now, Timothy. Other people aren’t going to be as lax with you as we have.”

“Of course,” Tim replies around the knot in his throat. “Right.”

“Furthermore, what on earth were you _thinking_ , offering to increase your own ransom?” his mother snaps, voice cold and cutting. “Did you stop for even a second to think about how that would affect our financial state? What about the state of the company?”

Tim ducks his head and stares at the intricately woven rug. “I know I messed up,” he mumbles.

“What was what? I’d like you to repeat it again,” his mother says sternly. Oh, she definitely heard him the first time, but she probably wants to hammer the point home.

“I know I messed up,” Tim states clearly, staring at the rug. “And I’m very sorry for all of the trouble I’ve caused.” His eyes burn and his chest feels tight. Why does one measly lecture from his mother make him want to cry like a baby? Tim is thirteen years old; he’s not a kid. He should be able to handle this.

“Hopefully we won’t have a repeat of this situation, but Timothy... You can’t place yourself in danger like that. Someday in the future, you’re going to be the CEO of Drake Industries. Your friend isn’t as important as you, darling.”

“What?” Tim croaks, blinking at the sudden blurriness in his eyes. “But _Mom_ , he’s my _friend_ \--”

Ice seeps into his mother’s voice. “You are more important than some piece of street trash that Bruce Wayne picked up,” she snaps. “Stop being so childish.”

“Don’t call him that!” Tim cries as his eyes fill with tears. “You can’t just--”

“Yes, I can,” she replies coolly. “Why can’t you understand that I’m trying to help you? You need to learn how to prioritize or you’re going to be in for a rude awakening when you step foot in the real world without your father and I to protect you.”

“I don’t care, you can’t call him that! He’s my friend, he’s not--” His voice cracks and he swallows before continuing, “He’s not _trash_ ,” he finishes pitifully.

The door to the study creaks open, but Tim barely registers it as his mother barks, “Show some respect. I am trying to _help_ you, for God’s sake, not that you’re making it easy for me.”

Bruce enters Tim’s line of sight as he kneels in front of him on the carpet and mouths, _Do you want me to take over?_

Tim freezes, torn between wanting this entire situation to be over and not wanting Bruce anywhere near his mother just in case she-- does something. He already knows what Bruce thinks about his parents and there’s no sense in handing him more ammunition for his accusations.

“Timothy Jackson Drake, are you even listening to me?” his mother demands as Bruce waits patiently with clear eyes.

He can’t deal with-- he can’t do this. Before he can think twice, he’s saying, “Mom, Bruce wants to speak with you,” and quickly handing his phone over to Bruce.

“Hi, Mrs. Drake,” Bruce says calmly as he stands back up.

Tim stares at the carpet and resists the urge to rub his eyes like a crying child. A hand lands lightly on his back and then Bruce is gently pulling Tim against his side for a one-armed hug.

“Right,” Bruce says into the phone pressed against his ear, “We’re more than happy to have Tim stay with us. He’s really an excellent child; you’re very lucky to have him.”

He gently rubs Tim’s back as he presses his cheek into Bruce’s chest and tries to not cry. “Mhmm,” Bruce says into the phone, affectionately running a hand through Tim’s hair.

After a moment, Tim catches his breath and draws away. Bruce glances down at him and pulls the phone away from his ear. “Why don’t you go sit with Jason for a bit?” he suggests quietly.

Tim nods and Bruce runs his hand through Tim’s hair one one last time before Tim shuffles out of the study. Mostly on autopilot, he makes his way back to Jason’s room and finds that Jason has migrated to his bed.

“Hey, dude,” Jason says, pulling out one earbud. His brow creases in concern when he catches sight of the mess that Tim’s face must be right now. “What’s up, are you okay?”

Tim shrugs half-heartedly and stares at the neatly folded knitted throw blanket at the foot of his bed. “Parents called,” he rasps. Jason opens his mouth but before he can ask, Tim adds, “Bruce is talking with them.”

Still watching him carefully, Jason nods. “Right,” he says and then scoots over, patting the space next to him on the bed. “Well, wanna play Minecraft with me? I’m trying to build Minas Tirith from Lord of the Rings.”

Tim blinks in confusion and Jason hands him his phone, where he’s pulled up a picture of a rather impressive-looking structure. “This is Minas Tirith,” he explains.

“Gotcha,” Tim says and sits down next to Jason on the bed.

“Wait, hang on--” Jason says and Tim freezes. Did he do something wrong? But then Jason is reaching around him and grabbing the throw blanket so he can carefully drape it around Tim’s shoulders. “There you go,” he says, looking very pleased with himself. Jason ruffles Tim’s hair before turning his laptop so they can both see it.

“I’m kind of stuck on how to get the rock jutting out here to look right, but I have a few ideas that could work. I’m thinking maybe we could try--”

* * *

When Bruce steps into Jason’s bedroom half an hour later, he finds Jason and Tim huddled together on the bed as Jason animatedly explains Gollum’s backstory.

“--and then he was stuck in the Misty Mountains for, like, four hundred years. He ate a bunch of raw fish and goblins, I think?”

Smiling, Bruce leans against the doorframe and watches as Tim frowns. “Wouldn’t that give him a vitamin deficiency? I mean, were there any plants growing in the cave? He could’ve eaten those, but I don’t know if they would’ve been very nutritious.”

“Huh.” Jason absentmindedly scratches his cheek. “Yeah, I guess? Hey, we could probably google it.”

Nodding, Tim looks over Jason’s shoulder as he pulls up a new browser window. “Mosses, ferns, and liverworts grow in caves,” Jason recites, peering at the screen.

“Are any of those edible?”

“Dunno. Maybe we can look it up” Jason suggests.

Bruce walks into the room, still smiling. “Some mosses are edible, but some raw mosses are toxic. Ferns are edible if you cook them, but fresh liverwort can give you blisters. Either way, I wouldn’t recommend eating them. Not much nutritional value if you’re looking to survive in a cave for four hundred years.”

Tim jumps a little, but Jason merely nods thoughtfully. “The more you know. Thanks, B.”

“Anytime, chum.” Bruce takes a seat on the edge of the bed and hands Tim his phone. “Here you go, by the way.”

Tim blinks up at him with wide eyes and accepts the phone, tucking it into his pocket. “Did it-- did everything go okay?” he asks with more than a hint of wariness.

Bruce makes sure to keep him smile easy and warm. “Yeah, everything went well. Your parents are returning from Russia on December twenty sixth and they’re happy to have you stay here with us until they get back.”

“Okay.” Tim nods, staring down at the bed for a moment before looking back up at him. “Thanks, Bruce,” he says quietly. Man, Bruce wants to wrap this kid in a blanket, though it looks like someone has already done that for him. (It’s most likely Jason’s doing; he’s taken to acting like a big brother like a duck to water. What a good kid.)

“Of course, sport. We love having you stay with us.” He smiles again and, careful to telegraph his movements, reaches out to pat Tim’s shoulder. This time, Tim doesn’t flinch away or tense up too badly. Compared to the frightened child who first came to stay with them nearly two months ago, he’s made a lot of progress.

Bruce stands up and ignores the way that his knees crack. “Well, I’ve bothered you two for long enough. I’ll let you get back to contemplating the Middle Earth.”

Jason perks up. “Oh, before you go, we wanted to get your opinion on something. Can you take a look at this and tell us what you think? We’re trying to build Minas Tirith and something about the scale looks wrong, but we can’t tell exactly what.”

Sitting back down on the bed, Bruce takes the laptop when it’s handed to him. His eyebrows climb up his forehead at the half-built but nonetheless impressive form of Minas Tirith. “This is really fantastic, you know. You’ve done a great job.”

Jason beams and Tim ducks his head, flushing at the praise.

“Thanks! Something about it still looks off, though,” Jason says, peering at it over Bruce’s shoulder.

Bruce nods and zooms in to examine the carefully constructed pillars and windows before he zooms back out again. “It’s the walls,” he decides. “Try making the city’s walls higher and that should fix your problem.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” Tim whispers, staring at the screen.

Jason nods resolutely and takes the laptop back. “Yeah, I think you’re right. Here, let me try something--”

* * *

The three of them spend most of the afternoon building in Minecraft as they lounge around on Jason’s bed. At some point, Dick bounds into the room and lays down on the window seat, phone in his hand and earbuds in his ears.

Alfred catches Bruce’s eye when he comes to check on them, bearing an offering of snacks and drinks.

_Look at our kids,_ Bruce tries to convey to him with a look. They’re all crammed into one room and everybody is happy and safe and wonderfully, gloriously _alive_. Jason is leaning against him and Tim’s knee is lightly touching Bruce’s as he points to something on Jason’s laptop. _Look at our kids._

Smiling, Alfred’s eyes soften. _Our kids_ , he seems to agree, watching them fondly.

_Ours_ , Bruce thinks. If someone had told him twenty or even ten years ago that he’d be covered in children and happy as a clam, he would’ve laughed them out of the room. Now, though, he’s full of so much affection that it feels like his heart might burst.

There aren’t any emergencies that require his immediate attention, no supervillains or killer robots or aliens trying to take over the world. It’s just Bruce and his kids and his second father with an entire lazy afternoon ahead of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely beta, [S](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolateandsilver), and to [goldkirk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldkirk/pseuds/goldkirk) for looking over this chapter!
> 
> And thank you to all of you for reading and commenting!! <3


	15. no lines drawn between them, just one great symphony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim has a very normal, totally ordinary, and completely unremarkable day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Looking for Love by Birdtalker. 
> 
> I hope that you enjoy this chapter!! I had a lot of fun writing it. :D
> 
>  **CWs:** none

The beginning of Tim’s day is startlingly normal. Unnervingly average, almost. The past few days have been rather tumultuous: he was taken hostage during a school field trip, had a panic attack in front of Bruce and Dick, and went through that somewhat disastrous call with his mother. Perhaps the universe decided that after all of that bullshit, Tim should have one ordinary, unremarkable day.

In hindsight, the sense of normalcy should have been his first clue. He lives in _Gotham_ , for fuck’s sake, and nothing in Gotham is ever normal.

Jason and Tim spend most of the morning playing Minecraft together in Jason’s room. They manage to get a respectable amount of work done on the Lord of the Rings building that they started before the fateful phone call yesterday.

They have soup and sandwiches for lunch, delivered directly to Jason’s room by the amazing Alfred and eaten while sprawled out on Jason’s bed. However, just as they start building the second layer of buildings of Minas Tirith, Jason’s phone buzzes. He wordlessly hands his laptop over to Tim and leans over to retrieve his phone from its spot next to the pillow.

Tim starts assembling the foundation of one of the buildings as Jason peers at his phone.

“Hey, think we’re at a good stopping point? Bruce wants to talk to us in the study,” Jason says, glancing up from his phone to look at Tim.

“Uh, probably? I’m just working on the foundation here, but we can definitely take a break.” Tim closes the laptop and sets it down on the bed. “Why does Bruce want to talk to us? Is something wrong?”

Jason types something into his phone before quickly stowing it away in his pocket. “Nah, nothing’s wrong. I think he just wanted to show us something cool.” He grabs the nearest pillow and lightly whacks Tim’s shoulder with it. “You’re thinking too hard. I promise that B isn’t mad at you or anything.”

He stands up and offers a hand to Tim to help him off the bed. “C’mon, Timbourine. It’ll be fun, promise.”

Frowning, Tim takes Jason’s hand and lets himself be hauled off the bed. “Okay,” he says, voice carefully neutral.

“Great! Let’s go,” Jason chirps, bounding out of the room before pausing to wait for Tim.

“Do you know what Bruce wants to talk to us about?” Tim questions as he catches up to Jason.

Deliberately not looking at Tim, Jason shrugs. “Nah,” he lies unconvincingly.

Tim frowns. Aren’t Bats supposed to be good liars? Stealth and subtlety are Batman’s whole gimmick. Except for, you know, the whole “dressing up as a bat” thing.

He supposes that if Jason is this cheerful about whatever Bruce wants to talk about, then it’s unlikely that he’s going to yell at them. Still, Tim can’t think of a single good reason why Bruce would want them to come to the study. Most of the time, Bruce just pops into whatever room they’re in if he wants to chat.

“I can see you worrying, Timbo,” Jason says, nudging him as they step into the study.

Tim raises an eyebrow at him but before he can reply, Bruce raises a hand where he’s seated in one of the comfortable armchairs in front of the large wooden desk. “Hey, kids. Come have a seat. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” Tim replies vaguely. As he walks over to the chairs, he casts a critical eye over the room. Alfred is sorting the books in one of the many bookcases scattered throughout the room, though they were already so neat that Tim can’t see much of a difference. On the other side of the room, Dick taps something on his phone as he sits upside down on the sofa. He’s probably playing games on his phone again.

Ace barely raises his head as Tim takes a seat neat to Bruce. Neatly folding his hands in his lap, Tim watches Bruce unblinkingly.

“Oh, I’m good. Timmy and I are still working on making Minas Tirith in Minecraft,” Jason says as he plops down into a chair. “Also, Alfred, the soup you brought us for lunch was the bomb dot com. Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome,” Alfred replies as he carefully aligns the spines of a shelf of books.

“That sounds very impressive, I’m glad that you two are having fun.” Bruce regards Tim with his unnervingly calm eyes, his chin propped up on one hand. He drops his hand and leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I know that you’re probably wondering what I wanted to talk about, so I’ll try to cut to the chase.”

Jason bounces his leg and bites his cheek in a way that suggests he’s fighting off a smile. There’s no way that he doesn’t know what’s going on, but why is he leaving Tim in the dark?

“You're a good kid, Tim,” Bruce says as he meets Tim’s eyes. “You've repeatedly demonstrated that time and time again. We love having you here and you’ve really become a member of the family.”

Huh, this isn’t going in the direction that Tim expected. Also, why does he feel a little bit like crying? “Thanks, Bruce,” he replies, fingers twitching in his lap as he resists the urge to wipe at his eyes. “I like being here.” To his surprise, it feels like the truth.

“I’m glad to hear it, sport.” Bruce gently smiles at him and reaches out to place a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I appreciate how honest and open you've been with us, but I'm afraid that I haven't been completely honest with you.”

Tim tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?” he asks cautiously.

Bruce squeezes his shoulder. “I have something that i need to tell you, but I think it'll be easier if I show you.” He stands up and Tim doesn’t miss the way that Jason’s grin widens. Dick seems to have stopped playing on his phone in favor of watching whatever is about to happen. Even Alfred has started aligning books that really don’t need to be organized, though at least he’s attempting to maintain the pretense of not listening in.

Tim frowns as Bruce walks around the desk and approaches the grandfather clock sitting innocuously between two bookcases. Something is up.

 _Focus, Tim_ , he tells himself. _Review the evidence before jumping to conclusions._

Here are the facts:

First, there’s a joke or a plan that he’s not a part of, but everyone else seems to know about it.

Second, “everyone else” in this instance just happens to be Nightwing, Robin, and Alfred Pennyworth, who is a superhero in his own right. Only a metahuman could wrangle Bruce Wayne and keep the Wayne household running as smoothly as it does under Alfred’s supervision.

Third, Bruce said that he has something to tell Tim. It sounded very serious and kind of ominous, which is exactly Batman’s style.

Fourth, Jason looks really, _really_ excited.

Fifth, Tim has checked the entire manor for hints as to where Batman’s headquarters must be. It would be inconvenient and potentially dangerous to store his equipment somewhere far away from the manor, so it must be on the manor’s grounds. By this point, Tim has found a few hidden passageways, but they only led to spare rooms. He hasn’t seen neither hide nor hair of Batman’s headquarters.

However, Tim never thought to investigate the grandfather clock in the study.

Bruce reaches out to touch the hands of the clock, turning them into position, and--

“Oh, are the hands of the clock like a lock?” Tim blurts out. Bruce pauses, glancing back at him, and Tim continues, “That’s a really good idea. I’ve been looking for wherever your headquarters is for a while, but I hadn’t even considered the clock. That’s genius, really. I mean-- you are about to show me your secret Batman headquarters, right?”

Bruce’s hands freeze on the clock as he blinks once in surprise. He looks a little bit like he was hit in the head with a two by four. Jason’s leg pauses mid-bounce and his mouth is slightly open like he was going to say something, but instead he only gapes at Tim.

“It’s just, well,” Tim babbles, “At first I thought that maybe you were keeping all of your equipment in a secret room in the manor. I’ve looked everywhere I could think of, but I couldn’t find any mysterious hidden rooms where your headquarters might be. I figured that maybe it was hidden somewhere else on the manor's grounds because why would you leave all of your stuff somewhere that people could get to it, you know? But I haven’t had a chance to really explore the grounds yet."

“You-- knew?” Bruce asks slowly.

Tim shrugs. “Well, yeah.”

Apparently too stunned for words, Bruce pulls out the chair behind his desk and sits down heavily.

Jason is the first to unfreeze. “What the fuck,” he says, gripping the arms of his chair for dear life. “You _knew_?”

Nobody bothers to correct his langage. Alfred is too busy covering his mouth like he’s trying to not laugh.

Dick is now sitting straight up on the couch like a meerkat. “ _What,_ ” he says to the room at large, only to be mostly ignored. His phone is still out-- was he recording this?

Leaning forward, Jason desperately grabs the armrest of Tim’s chair. “How long have you known?” he demands, eyes wide. “Wait, what gave it away? Shit, was it that time that I snuck upstairs in my uniform to get a snack? I heard a noise in the hallway but I thought it was just Ace. Oh my god.”

“Master Jason, you know the rules about no uniforms outside the Cave!” Alfred scolds gently, though there’s a hint of mirth in his voice.

“So it’s a cave?” Tim asks breathlessly before smacking his forehead. “Man, that makes so much sense! It would be way harder to find than something above ground. And bats live in caves! Wow, I can’t believe that I didn’t think of that.”

“It’s called the Batcave,” Bruce says slowly with all of the helpless resignation of a man who lost control of his life years ago.

“Oh, just like the Batmobile! That’s pretty neat. Anyways,” Tim says as Dick’s shoulders shake in silent laughter, “To answer your other question, I figured it out when I saw Nightwing do a quadruple backflip on TV. Only three people in the world can do that, you know.”

Bruce blinks slowly, still dazed. “Tim,” he begins, “How long ago was that?”

Frowning, Tim tries to recall when he saw that particular news program. “Uhh, it was in January.”

“...January of this year?” Jason asks.

Tim shakes his head. “No, not this year. I was-- nine, I think?”

Bruce’s face goes blank as his brain presumably shuts down again.

“Holy _shit,_ ” Dick breathes, eyes wide.

Jason pumps his fist in the air. “Yes, it wasn’t me! Take that, Dickiebird!”

“Language, Master Dick,” Alfred says primly.

“Wait, what? Why is Jason allowed to say fuck but I can’t say shit?” Dick protests, gesturing towards Jason with his free hand.

“I was completely and entirely surprised by these recent revelations and didn’t wish to spoil the moment for you all,” Alfred replies evenly, setting down the books in his hands.

Jason frowns, peering at Alfred. “Wait a second,” he says slowly. “Alfred, did you know that Tim knew?”

If Alfred was even slightly less committed to maintaining himself as the lone pillar of propriety amongst the sea of chaos that is the Wayne family, he likely would’ve snorted. “Of course I knew,” he replies easily. “Master Bruce learned all of his reconnaissance skills from _me_ , after all.”

Bruce lifts his head to stare at Alfred. “You knew, Al?” he asks, betrayed.

Alfred’s mustache twitches as he smirks. “But of course, Master Bruce.”

Bruce drops his head into his hands wearily before looking up at Tim. “Tim. Come here, I’m going to give you a hug.”

“Okay,” Tim replies, confused, but he stands up and walks over to Bruce anyways.

With a sigh, Bruce wraps his arms around Tim and briefly rests his head on Tim’s shoulder. A moment later, Bruce pulls away and gently places his hands on Tim’s shoulders.

“Tim,” he says, soft but serious, “You figured it out when scores of supervillains have failed to do so. You’re an extraordinarily bright kid. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Tim flushes at the praise. “I don’t know about that,” he hedges.

“Well,” Bruce says, “I think you’re pretty smart and I’m apparently the World’s Greatest Detective, so I must be right.”

Staring at his feet, Tim fights the ridiculous urge to cry. Bruce leans forward and kisses his forehead before standing up. “Come on, chum. Let’s give you a tour of the Cave.”

He pats Tim’s shoulder and then turns the hands of the grandfather clock into what must be some predetermined position. The portion of the wall behind the clock soundlessly swings outwards, revealing a stone staircase descending into darkness. A series of lamps lining the stairs light up, removing some of the gloom.

“Oh, good, the stairs are properly lit,” Tim’s mouth says before his brain can stop him. “I was worried that your headquarters-- the Batcave, I mean-- wouldn’t have enough light since your look is so, you know.” He waves a hand. “Dark and gloomy? In a good way, I mean! I’m sure that it’s very effective at intimidating people. And I guess that improperly lit stairs aren’t the most dangerous thing that you deal with, but it would probably be hard to carry stuff down dimly lit stairs. And it would be an OSHA violation, probably.”

Bruce, who seems to have fully rebooted his brain by this point, nods patiently. “Well, there’s no sense in creating unnecessary danger.”

“You’d prefer to avoid _unnecessary danger?_ I’m afraid that we must call the Justice League and notify them that the Batman has been replaced with an imposter,” Alfred remarks scathingly.

Jason barks out a laugh. “He’s got you there, B.”

Bruce ignores both of them, save for the small smile gracing his face. “Let’s give you a tour of the Cave, yeah?”

“Cave tour!” Dick shouts as he runs past them and bounds down the stairs. “I call dibs on showing him the uniforms!”

“I call the Batmobile!” Jason hollers, springing up from his chair as he sprints after Dick.

Bruce turns to Tim. “Ready to go?”

Tim nods enthusiastically and follows Bruce down the steps, albeit at a much tamer pace than Dick or Jason. “I have so many questions,” he says as they descend the steps. “I-- whoah.” Wide-eyed, Tim stares down at the now-visible platforms of the Batcave.

Smiling, Bruce pauses as Tim takes in the scene below him. “The cave systems below the manor are all naturally formed. We just added some equipment.”

Tim nods and hurries down the rest of the steps as fast as is proper. “This is really cool,” he whispers as he looks between the Batcomputer, the Batmobile, and what looks like-- a giant penny and a dinosaur?

“Tim!” Dick waves at him from a set of well-lit cases across from the Batcomputer. “Over here!”

Tim glances up at Bruce, who smiles and pats his back. “Go on,” he says.

Smiling back at Bruce, Tim darts across the main chamber and over to Dick. He skids to a halt in front of the glass cases and tries not to gawk too much at the line of uniforms on display.

Dick spreads his arms like a circus ringmaster and announces, “Welcome to the first stop on our tour of the Batcave. I present to you: our old uniforms.” He steps to the side and gestures dramatically at the row of uniforms in glass cases.

Jason, who is perched on a crate next to Dick, claps politely. “Behold, a history of Dick Grayson’s fashion disasters,” he says drily.

Grinning, Dick deftly puts Jason in a headlock and gives him a noogie. “As I was saying,” he continues, ignoring Jason’s protests, “These are our old uniforms. They go in chronological order with the oldest on the left and the newest on the right. Bruce likes updating our suits a lot, so we usually only add a suit to the lineup if we’re completely redesigning it and making a new one from scratch.”

“Cool,” Tim nods.

Dick releases Jason from the headlock and steps over to the first case, ignoring Jason’s retaliatory swat to the shoulder. “Bruce’s first Batman uniform was made of literal black spandex. It’s not on display because apparently we, his dear, loving family, tease him too much about it. Instead, we have his second Batsuit here. It’s body armor, it has a bat on it.”

“It’s emo, it’s brooding,” Jason adds. Tim bites back a smile.

Dick nods sagely. “Exactly. Moving on to what’s _actually_ interesting, here’s my old Robin uniform!” He beams as he gestures with both arms to the next case. “Now, I know that you’re probably wondering what this thing is made of and all of that.”

“Because you’re a nerd,” Jason says fondly.

“Hey, it _is_ really cool,” Tim points out. “I mean, Batman has a unique combination of stealth and close quarters combat. I’ve always wondered how he chooses materials that balance speed, agility, and protection. I have a few ideas, but nothing concrete.”

“You really are a smart kid, Timbo,” Dick says, smiling.

Tim shuffles his feet. “Not really,” he deflects, but the Waynes aren’t having any of it.

“Nope, incorrect,” says Jason, arms crossed as he leans against a display case. “Accept our love, Timbo.”

“Welcome to the dark side, we have cookies,” Dick intones, eliciting a pained squawk from Jason. “Anyways,” he says brightly, “Our uniforms have a layer of kevlar bi-weave and reinforced joints on top of an underlayer with built-in temperature regulators. Bruce’s stuff is more heavily armored than ours so we can focus on speed and agility.”

Tim nods contemplatively. “That makes sense,” he muses. “One of my questions was going to be about temperature regulation. I know that sometimes Batman works during the day for the Justice League and stuff, and wearing black full-body armor sounded like an easy way to get heatstroke.”

“Right,” Dick nods. “Well, we do carry special sports drinks and whatnot on us and Alfred reminds us to stay hydrated, so it’s not usually a problem.”

“Hydrate or diedrate,” Jason says drily.

Dick smacks his shoulder. “No dying allowed,” he says sternly before turning back to Tim. “What was I doing? Right, my old getup. So, as you can see, it looks very different from Jason’s current Robin uniform.”

“I insisted on adding pants. I can’t believe that Bruce let Dick run around pantless like an _animal--_ ”

“Hey, I was a circus kid! I spent most of my time wearing leotards.”

“--like, hey, Robin definitely needs big, bulky frickin’ gloves to protect his forearms, but you know what doesn’t need protection? All of the arteries in his _thighs_ \--”

Tim tenses at their bickering. He _knows_ that they’re just messing around-- it’s Dick and Jason, after all-- but he can’t quite get the little voice in his head telling him to _calm them down, you don’t want them fighting, go find somewhere to lay low and make yourself useful for a while_ to be quiet.

Dick catches his eye and must see something, because then he’s giving Jason a look and Jason stops trying to bite the hand that Dick put over his mouth. “I’ll admit that the pixie boots were a bold choice,” he says easily.

Jason raises an eyebrow at Dick. “You say that like most of your fashion decisions aren’t bold choices.”

Dick shrugs. “I’m a bold person.”

The rest of the uniform tour is relatively tame, save for the part where Nightwing proudly introduces his aptly-named Discowing suit and Jason laughs so hard that he nearly has to sit down.

“The collar,” he wheezes, leaning against the display case, “The _collar_. The _neckline_. It’s so--” Jason dissolves into another fit of laughter while Dick shrugs helplessly.

“It was a statement piece.”

“What statement were you trying to make?” Tim asks.

“Glitter,” Dick replies serenely. He gives Jason, who has fully collapsed onto the floor, a little nudge with his foot.

“ _Discowing_ ,” Jason manages to get out, clutching his stomach helplessly.

Dick exchanges a glance with Tim and shrugs. “Anyways, so this one is Jason’s uniform from last year--”

They manage to make it through the rest of the uniform tour without any further incidents. Tim barely manages to keep himself from blurting out questions while Dick is talking. He’s in the Batcave! The literal Batcave! Nightwing and Robin are here, giving him a tour and gently poking fun at each other’s past poor fashion choices. It’s absolutely surreal. Tim has to subtly pinch himself to make sure that he’s not dreaming.

“So, do you have any questions?” Dick asks once they reach the last display case.

Oh, does Tim have questions. He has _years_ worth of questions that he’s been amassing ever since he first heard the name Batman. Still, somehow the first thing out of Tim’s mouth is, “How do you avoid getting awkward mask tans? What if Batman gets a sunburn in the shape of his cowl?”

Jason laughs. “Sunscreen. So much sunscreen.”

“We can use makeup to cover up any strange tan lines or bruises,” Dick adds with a smile.

“Oh,” Tim says, mind racing. “Right, that makes sense. How do you attach your masks? At first, I thought that you used spirit gum or something like that, but then I realized that spirit gum can be really irritating to your skin. I mean-- having a patch of red around your eyes in the shape of a mask would be kind of a dead giveaway.”

“We use a special adhesive that’s pretty common in the caped community. You can think of it as really nice spirit gum. Bruce likes making ours in-house,” Dick explains. “There’s a special solvent that goes along with it. We usually just wet a rag with it and wipe our mask down and bam, no more mask.”

“Huh.” Tim nods. “Okay. What are the lenses in your masks made out of? They look hard to see out of, but I figured that maybe--”

He continues to pelt them with questions all through the tour of the Batcomputer and Batmobile. They even let him sit in the driver’s seat and Tim is pretty sure that he will never feel cooler in his entire _life._ Of course, Tim is only thirteen, so they don’t let him drive it, but _still_.

Jason tells him what a bunch of the different buttons on the console do and who knew that the Batmobile has a rocket booster? Not Tim, but now he knows. His feet don’t reach the pedals and he can’t see above the steering wheel that well, but Tim can’t quite bring himself to care about that just yet. He doesn’t swing his feet like a child and Jason gives him actual explanations instead of hand-waving away his questions like he’s stupid, so Tim will let it slide just this once.

Bruce stays in the medbay during most of the tour, but he emerges when Dick and Jason start tugging Tim towards the training area. He mostly sticks to the shadows and leans against a weight rack, arms crossed, as Jason explains what all of the different pieces of equipment do.

“And this, of course, is the gymnastics area.” In one fluid motion, Dick jumps onto a balance beam and falls into a handstand. “I use it the most because I’m awesome, but B and Jaybird do their fair share of acrobatics practice too. The foam pit is pretty fun too. Good for jumping into.”

“You tend to need at least some basic gymnastics skills for freerunning across Gotham. It’s also good for generally building agility and sense of balance,” Jason adds.

“What’s the cage for?” Tim asks, pointing at the wire cage with what looks like a bunch of bungee cords and a harness dangling from the center.

“That’s the spider cage,” Bruce responds at the same time that Jason says, “The child cage,” and Dick shouts, “Gay baby jail!”

Perplexed, Tim blinks at them and tilts his head. “What?”

Jason turns to Bruce and makes a reasonable attempt at puppy eyes. “B, can we put Tim in the cage? Please?”

Bruce walks over and looks between Dick and Jason before his eyes land on Tim. “The spider cage is one of the many tools that we use in our training,” he explains, meeting Tim’s gaze evenly. “You see that harness? Whoever’s in the harness will be suspended by those bungee cords. It allows you to do things like jumping while you’re being supported by the cords.”

“That’s how B taught me to do a backflip,” Jason chimes in.

Tim frowns. “So it’s meant to… teach you how to backflip?”

Bruce shakes his head. “Not quite. One of its main purposes is allowing you to move without the fear of falling or getting hurt. Spider cages are primarily used in physiotherapy because they can improve your proprioception, or bodily awareness, as well as your balance and coordination.”

“Huh.” Tim looks over the contraption again, casting a critical eye over the dangling harness and the mats padding the floor of the cage.

“If you’d like, we can put you in it so you can try it out. But you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Bruce says gently, still watching Tim. “It’s your choice.”

Tim considers the offer and shuffles his feet, glancing at the floor. He doesn’t want to be rude, but… “I’m good for now. Thank you, though.”

Bruce nods and pats Tim’s shoulder. “Of course.”

Dick flips down from the balance beam and lands easily on his feet. “If you want, we can show you how to use some of the other training stuff here. It might be helpful for your nighttime jaunts.”

Tim carefully glances at Jason to watch for his reaction, but he merely nods in agreement. Hmmm. Dick and Bruce probably told him about Tim’s little photographic escapades.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Bruce says. “Actually, Tim, I wanted to talk to you about that.”

Straightening a little, Tim holds up his hands placatingly. “I won’t touch any of your stuff, I swear. I know that it’s all probably specially made and everything, and I don’t want to break it or smudge it or anything.”

Bruce’s face settles into something calm and steady. “You’re more than welcome to use our exercise equipment, Tim. Granted, I’d like it if you had one of us with you to make sure that you’re safe and your form won’t cause any injuries, but that rule applies to anyone who I’ve just started training.”

“Training?” Tim frowns. Training him? Surely Bruce has more important things to focus on, like Gotham or the Justice League or even his own company.

He sits down on one of the flat workout benches and pats the seat next to him. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

Still frowning, Tim sits and peers up at Bruce as he waits for an explanation.

“Tim,” Bruce says gently, “One of the reasons why I was so worried about you during the field trip is that you don’t have any formal training.”

“But I’m not completely defenseless,” Tim points out reasonably. “I take self-defense classes.”

“You’re a very capable person,” Bruce agrees. “However, you don’t have any formal training under me. Especially considering your work as Gotham’s Shadow, I’d feel better if you let us teach you some of the basics.”

Tim rolls the sleeve of his sweatshirt between his fingers, but he pauses when the realization hits him. “Wait a second. I never told you about the name Gotham’s Shadow. How did you…?”

A small smile spreads across Bruce’s face. “We work closely with Jim Gordon. When he started getting emails from an unknown person calling themself Gotham’s Shadow, he asked me to look into it to make sure that we weren’t being fed false information.”

“We tried tracing where the emails originated from, but we couldn’t figure it out,” Dick adds helpfully. “So, whatever you’ve been using to cover your steps, it’s really good.”

Tim flushes and stares at his feet. “It’s just a VPN. I added some stuff to it, is all.”

“Some stuff to send us on a wild goose chase,” Dick replies. “It was really well done, Tim.”

The flush on his face intensifies. “Thanks,” Tim says quietly, ducking his head. “So-- does that mean that Commissioner Gordon asked _Batman_ to look into the leads that I sent him?”

“Sometimes, yes,” Bruce says easily.

“Oh,” Tim says, and why does that make him want to cry?

Bruce wraps an arm around Tim’s shoulders and reels him in until he can lean his head against Bruce’s chest while Bruce hugs him. “You’ve done well, especially considering your resources and lack of formal training. We’re all very proud of you, buddy.”

He lets the hug last until Tim’s eyes are no longer watering. Bruce tries to pull his hand away, but Tim leans into his hand. Smiling slightly, Bruce puts his hand back on Tim’s shoulder.

“The training,” Tim says, searching for something that won’t circle back around to nearly making him cry again. “What would that involve?”

“Some self-defense and de-escalation techniques. The goal would be for you to be able to escape dangerous situations and go call us for help,” Bruce explains patiently. “So there would be some strength training, endurance training, work on your proprioception, and general balance and coordination training. We’d also teach you some basic self-defense moves and do some very light sparring.”

“Maybe some freerunning practice too?” Jason suggests. “It could tie into his endurance training. It’s good for agility work too.”

“Good idea, Jaybird.” Bruce nods in agreement, very deliberately not glancing at Dick as he sneaks up behind Jason.

“Rooftop tag is always fun. But Tim, you gotta keep an eye out for Dick,” Jason says, seemingly oblivious as his older brother creeps up behind him. “Whenever we play rooftop tag, he always cheats because he’s a big--”

Whatever Jason was about to say turns into a yelp of surprise as Dick tackles him into the foam pit. Bruce merely chuckles, shaking his head as Tim stares at the writhing mass of limbs in the foam pit.

“Wrestling and crashing into things builds your sense of proprioception,” Bruce explains, barely glancing over at his children thrashing around among the foam cubes. “So tackling each other into the foam pit is actually building their sense of bodily awareness, but it also happens to be fun for them.”

“Oh,” Tim says as he watches Dick bodily pick up Jason and toss him further into the pit.

“Dick is particularly enthusiastic about making sure that his younger brother builds an adequate sense of bodily awareness,” Bruce adds drily. “Plus, they’re both still kids. If we spent all of our time as capes, we would burn out. We have to be regular people too and it’s healthy for kids to take a break to have fun.”

“Hmm.” Over in the foam pit, Jason whacks Dick in the face with a foam cube, but Dick only cackles and tackles him deeper into the foam. “I think the training sounds like a good idea,” he says finally.

Bruce smiles and squeezes Tim’s shoulder. “I’m glad to hear it, chum.”

Jason’s head pops out from the sea of foam cubes. “Heck yeah!” he yells before Dick drags him under again.

“So, when do we start?” Tim asks, looking up at Bruce.

“We can start soon, but we’ll take it slow. I want to give you time to recover from what happened during the field trip. Besides, Hanukkah starts soon and your parents will return afterwards, so I don’t want to plunge you into anything too intense this early in the process. We have time.”

Right, his parents won’t be home for Hanukkah. It would be more unusual for them to actually come home for Hanukkah, for it still stings. “Okay,” he says, picking at the edge of his sleeve.

“That reminds me, I was thinking of inviting some company over on the third or fourth night,” Bruce says. “Do you know if you’ll be up to having two guests over? Their names are Clark and Diana and they’re very close friends of mine. Clark is a reporter at the Daily Planet and Diana dabbles in everything from politics to curating museums. You don’t have to decide now, but if you agree, you can change your mind at any point later. I want you to feel comfortable and safe.”

“That’s fine,” Tim replies automatically. “I don’t want to keep you from having friends over.”

Evidently, this was the wrong response because Bruce frowns slightly. “Tim, you can say no to this. I can always go visit them later if I want to, but I don’t want to invite them over our house without first checking to make sure that you’ll be okay.”

Tim rolls the edge of his sweatshirt over his fingers instead of looking at Bruce. “You said that they’re close friends of yours?”

“Yes. I trust them with my life.”

“Then it’s okay. If the Batman trusts someone, then they’re probably a good person,” Tim decides without looking up.

Bruce gently squeezes his shoulder. “All right, I’ll contact them and make plans. And if you change your mind, that’s okay too. It doesn’t matter when or how close they are to coming over.”

Tim glances up at Bruce’s face, calm and serious, before looking back down again. “Okay.”

“I’m sure that they’ll be eager to tell you lots of embarrassing stories about me.”

“Oh! Ask them to tell you about that one time with the silly string!” Dick calls from the foam pit.

“Silly string?” Tim raises his eyebrows.

“Well--” Dick begins, but Bruce cuts him off.

“Jaybird, could you please whack your brother for me?”

“Aye aye, captain!” Jason shouts back before picking up a large foam cube and whacking Dick in the face with it. Dick yanks him back down into the foam and the pit dissolves into a flurry of cubes and limbs flying everywhere.

Bruce smiles as he watches the chaos that he created. When he catches Tim staring at him, he merely says, “Sometimes, I have to use my powers for evil.”

* * *

There’s a knock on Tim’s door. He looks up from his history notes and calls, “Come in!”

Jason strides in, laptop tucked under one arm. “I need your input on something.” He pauses, frowning. Tim tenses, watching him, but Jason keeps frowning. “Is that homework?”

“Yes?” Tim replies a little defensively. “I mean, we have school tomorrow. After missing so much time last week, I don’t want to fall behind.”

Jason’s eyebrows shoot up. “Dude,” he says. “We missed school because we were _held hostage by Two-Face_.”

“So?”

“So, if any of your teachers give you crap for it, B is gonna eat them alive.”

The staring match continues for another few heartbeats before Tim drops his gaze. “Yeah, but my parents…” he trails off before switching topics entirely. “I need good grades to get into college.”

Eyes softening, Jason takes a seat on the bed. “Colleges don’t look at the grades from your freshman year. Besides, taking an hour to help me find Hanukkah presents won’t impact your grades anyways.”

Tim pauses, resolve wavering, until he finally sets down his pencil. “Fine, but only an hour.”

Jason grins and opens his computer. “Awesome. Okay, so what do you think would be funnier to put on the ass of these shorts for Dick? ‘Menace to society’ or ‘pants are for losers’?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta, [S](https://chocolateandsilver.tumblr.com/), and the fantastic [goldkirk](https://goldkirk.tumblr.com/), who came up with the idea of having a foam pit in the Batcave!! 
> 
> For those of you who are curious what a spider cage is, here is the physiopedia entry for it: [[spider cage link]](https://www.physio-pedia.com/Spider_Cage). It's a very neat physiotherapy tool! 
> 
> My beta and I are currently going through the fic and making some edits. If a chapter was edited, I will add a note above the content warnings that lists the date when it was last updated.
> 
> Thank you all for your love and comments!! <3 <3 <3


	16. i see the light in your eyes like the stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim celebrates Hanukkah with the Wayne family and finally meets Bruce's friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Fine One Day by Tom Rosenthal.
> 
> This chapter was fun to write. Enjoy!! :D
> 
>  **CW:** supervised underage drinking (because Dick is 19 and in the US)

Tim stares at the potato in his hands, turning it over as he inspects it for any pieces of skin that he may have missed. A perfect, blank surface stares back at him. He adds the potato to the slowly growing pile, casting a glance over Jason and Dick. Despite their bickering over which type of Avatar bender they would all be (it was universally agreed upon that Dick would be an airbender, but there was some debate over whether Bruce would be a waterbender or an earthbender), they were both peeling their potatoes more quickly than Tim.

Picking up another potato, Tim gets to work. He needs to catch up. After all, he’s already crashing their celebration. If he’s intruding _and_ not pulling his own weight, well. That would be rude.

Something bumps into his shoulder. Tim looks up and finds Bruce smiling at him.

“Don’t worry about getting it perfectly peeled. Making latkes is all about the experience,” he says gently.

It’s been a while since Tim has made latkes. He vaguely remembers the last time that his parents were home for Hanukkah. For once, they weren’t fighting; they must have just returned from a trip. His mother sat at the kitchen table with him, laughing at something his father said as they peeled potatoes together. He doesn’t remember how their latkes tasted, but he does remember watching the flicker of candlelight as his mother lit the hanukkiah.

Most years, Tim buys frozen latkes from Trader Joes and sticks them in the microwave rather than face his fear of the oven. They’re fine-- it’s hard for potatoes to taste bad, even microwaved ones-- but he can never quite shake the feeling that something is missing.

Rather than admit just how long it’s been since he’s made latkes, Tim shrugs and focuses on digging an eye out of his potato. “Okay,” he replies quietly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Bruce watching him for another moment before Tim focuses on the task at hand. Soon, the kitchen smells like frying potatoes and Dick and Jason have switched to discussing the merits of each type of bending.

“Each type of bending has its strengths and weaknesses,” Bruce chimes in as he adds another peeled potato to the pile. “Have you considered that individual benders’ technique and application of bending might be more important than the element’s strength?”

Jason pauses in the middle of grabbing a new potato, eyes narrowing as he stares at Bruce. “Dick,” he says.

Dick looks up from where he’s picking up a potato peel from the ground. “Yeah?”

“Bruce would be a non-bender.”

Dick blinks and then nods. “Oh, you’re right.”

“I mean, he’s basically a non-bender who’s surrounded by benders,” Jason says.

Eyes widening, Dick puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Jason. _Jay._ Do you know what this means.”

“What?”

“ _Batman is Sokka_ ,” Dick breathes, staring at Bruce. “He’s a non-bender surrounded by benders trying to save the world. His boomerang is a batarang. We literally call them batarangs.”

Jason peers at Bruce, whose mouth has quirked into a tiny smile, and nods. “Oh, snap,” he whispers. “Wait-- who’s the Avatar?”

* * *

The remaining light from the setting sun gleams on the polished metal of the Waynes’ hanukkiah.

Bruce checks the time on his phone and nods. “All right,” he says and the room immediately settles.

Jason’s hand lands on one of Tim’s shoulders and while Dick’s settles in the middle of his back, right between his shoulder blades. When Tim glances at them questioningly, they merely smile.

Bruce lights the shamash and Tim watches the gentle flicker of the candlelight. The room fills with sound, everyone’s voices weaving together as they sing first two blessings and then the third, the Shehechiyanu. Bruce lights the first candle and sets the shamash back in its holder. Dick’s singing voice is surprisingly lovely as they sing _Maoz Tzur_ and Tim can pick out Alfred’s wavering yet comforting rumble from the mosaic of voices.

Just last year, Tim was reading the lyrics for _Maoz Tzur_ from his phone, his voice filling the empty house along with the candlelight from his mother’s menorah. Now, he’s surrounded by light and music and _people_.

He’s glad to be here, he really is-- he doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. The Waynes have taken him in and fed him and given him a roof over his head. Tim is indebted to them for all of the time and energy they’ve spent on him. At the same time, he’s a guest intruding on a family celebration. Tim shouldn’t be here.

As they all file out of the foyer to go eat, Bruce smiles at Tim and squeezes his shoulder as he passes by. Tim forces a smile and hopes that it doesn’t look too fake.

* * *

Alfred’s latkes are, predictably, absolutely delicious. There’s a veritable mountain of latkes, which preemptively defuses any potential squabbles between Dick and Jason over latke acquisitions. Instead, everyone keeps loading latkes onto Tim’s face until it feels like he’s about to start sweating oil, physically explode, or both. Only then does Bruce usher everyone into the den, where he produces a stack of presents.

“All right, here you go, Jaybird,” he says as he hands Jason a package wrapped with glittering white snowmen on a blue background. It’s followed by a clumsily wrapped red box that also happens to be covered with an absurd amount of curled ribbon.

Jason immediately raises an eyebrow at Dick, who shrugs. “What? I figured that the ribbons would make up for my lack of present-wrapping skills. Everyone likes ribbons,” he reasons.

Bruce digs another present out of the pile and hands it to Dick. “Can you pass that to Tim, please?”

Dick plops the present in Tim’s unsuspecting hands. Tim looks up, surprised. “You-- got me gifts? But I didn’t--”

 _I didn’t get you anything_ , he wants to say, but his mouth is uncooperative. His eyes burn and Tim stares helplessly at Bruce.

Bruce sets down the present in his hands and crosses the room to kneel in front of Tim. “Tim, buddy,” he says, gently taking Tim’s hands, “Of course we got you presents. You’re a member of the household right now.”

“You didn’t have to,” Tim says automatically, shoulders curling in a little. “I don’t want to be a bother.” However, he doesn’t pull his hands away from Bruce’s comforting grip.

“You’re not a bother. I enjoy having you here and I’m very happy that you’re celebrating the holidays with us,” Bruce says firmly.

“Dude, did you really think that we were going to make you sit there and watch us open presents in front of you?” Jason says, nudging Tim with one socked foot.

Yes, yes he did. “I don’t want to make you go out of your way for me,” he mumbles.

Bruce lightly squeezes Tim’s hands. “We’re not going to leave you out, sport. You’re a part of this family, even if it’s only for the time being. It makes us happy to buy gifts for you because we want you to be happy.”

Tim stares down at the snowflake pattern on the wrapping paper instead of answering.

“Come here, buddy,” Bruce says gently, wrapping Tim in a hug. Tim leans forward, present still clutched firmly in his hands, and lets Bruce press his forehead into his shoulder. A moment later, another pair of arms joins the hug.

“You can’t just leave me out of hugging Timmy time,” Dick accuses playfully from right behind Tim’s ear.

“Here, you know what?” Bruce leans away, only to grab a blanket from the arm of the couch. He drapes it around Tim and Dick’s shoulders as Tim merely blinks in surprise. “There you go,” Bruce says with a pleased nod.

“Yay!” Dick grins and squishes his cheek against the top of Tim’s head.

“Is this strictly necessary,” Tim says.

Dick makes quick work of wrapping his arms around Tim like an octopus. “Oh, absolutely.” He pulls Tim flush against his side, but Tim doesn’t try to wriggle free. Rather, he resigns himself to his fate for the foreseeable future and lets Dick adjust the blanket draped around their shoulders so it adequately covers both of them.

Bruce stands back up, pressing a kiss to Dick and Tim’s foreheads as he does so. “Well,” he begins, surveying the small piles of presents next to each person. “Shall we start opening gifts?”

Thirty minutes later, the den is remarkably free of wrapping paper scraps. It’s mostly due to Alfred’s insistence on putting the wrapping paper _into the trash bags, Master Dick, else we’ll be up to our ears in it_.

Bruce receives a shirt with a huge picture of Dick’s face on it, children’s picture book called “Bedtime for Batman” from Alfred, and a book of dad jokes from Jason. He leaves to immediately put on the shirt and when he returns, Dick laughs until he goes red in the face.

Alfred gets a sarcasm dictionary from Jason, a novelty mug from Dick that says, “I’m cooler than Batman”, and scented candles from Bruce.

“To relieve some of the stress that we cause you,” Bruce explains, eliciting an amused smile from Alfred.

Jason’s gifts include tickets to a Broadway musical from Dick, a Shakespearian insult maker from Bruce, and a red knitted beanie from Alfred. Dick receives a fluffy-looking blanket from Alfred, a set of sparkly dungeons and dragons dice from Bruce, and a baby pink crop top from Jason that says _BIG DICK ENERGY_ in holographic letters on the front.

Tim unwraps his presents carefully, trying not to rip the paper lest he accidentally damage whatever’s inside. When was the last time that someone bothered to wrap a present for him? His parents occasionally send him presents for his birthday, but they’re usually orders from online retailers that are shipped directly to him. They’re deposited on the porch in a cardboard box and wrapped in so much bubble wrap that Tim doesn’t need to be too careful when he opens the box. But these gifts, though-- someone took the time to wrap them, even the clumsily wrapped one from Dick.

He carefully deposits all of the wrapping paper in the trash bags like Alfred asks and stares at his gifts in disbelief. There’s a soft blanket from Bruce, a pair of knitted socks from Alfred, his very own copy of Animal Crossing from Dick, and a paint by numbers kit from Jason.

Tim picks up a corner of the blanket and runs his fingers over it. To his surprise, it’s rather heavy.

“It’s a weighted blanket,” Bruce explains as he watches Tim examine the blanket. “I thought that you might like your own weighted blanket rather than using Jason’s old one.”

“Oh,” Tim says, and why does he feel like crying? He runs his hands over the socks that Alfred gave him and finds them to be delightfully soft. Alfred made these for him, and Dick got him a game, and Jason got him something to paint with, probably after catching Tim watching him use a paint by numbers kit a few weeks ago, and--

Dick wraps his arms around Tim again and pulls him in for a hug. “Shhhh, it’s okay,” he soothes, and only then does Tim realize that he’s tearing up.

“Sorry,” Tim gasps, rubbing at his eyes. “Sorry. I--”

The other side of the sofa dips as Bruce sits down and starts rubbing Tim’s back through the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. “It’s okay, Tim,” he says gently.

Tim shakes his head and tries to wriggle away from their hands. Bruce’s hand drops and Dick lets go of him, but the blanket remains stubbornly wrapped around his shoulders. “I don’t wanna ruin Hanukkah,” he whispers, eyes burning.

Bruce smiles gently at him. “Tim, chum. Look at me for a second?” Tim looks up at Bruce through the tears in his eyes. “It’s all right to cry. I want you to feel whatever you need to feel, okay? I’m proud of you.”

“Why are you proud of me for crying?” Tim rasps, looking down at the floor. “It’s-- I’m just being stupid, give me a minute and I’ll be fine.”

“Because sometimes it’s hard to cry,” Bruce replies easily.

Tim can’t think of a good reply, so he rubs at his eyes again and tries to keep himself from sniffling. After a moment, he asks, “May I be excused?”

Bruce’s brow creases in concern. “Of course, Tim. You don’t need to ask.”

Tim stands up, shrugging off Dick’s blanket. “Thank you all very much for the gifts,” he says, barely managing to force eye contact before his eyes drop to the floor. Tim tries to gather his gifts in his arms, but the weighted blanket is too heavy to be easily carried. Frowning, he tries to shift it into his arms, but to no avail.

“Here, I can get that for you,” Bruce says, scooping up the blanket like it weighs nothing. “Are you headed to your room?”

Tim gives a little nod and protectively cradles the rest of his presents in his arms.

“Want me to get Ace for you?”

Tim narrows his eyes as he peers at Bruce. Is it a trap? It feels like a trap. “No, I’ll be fine.”

Barely hesitating, Bruce smiles easily down at him. “All right,” he says smoothly. “Then let’s go.”

They walk to his room in relative silence. Mercifully, Tim doesn’t have to speed up his pace to keep up with Bruce’s much longer legs. Tim opens the door of his room for Bruce and carefully places his gifts on his desk. He hovers next to his desk for a moment, watching Bruce carefully unfold the blanket and lay it on the foot of the bed.

“Do you want me to grab you anything before I go? Your laptop, some water…?”

“No, thank you,” Tim responds politely.

Bruce’s brow wrinkles, and why can’t Tim figure out the right thing to say? He didn’t ask for Bruce to spend any energy on fetching things for him just because-- because he cried a little bit like a baby. So why does Bruce look vaguely upset?

“You have your phone, right? You can text me if you need anything.”

“Yeah, it’s in my pocket.”

“Okay.” Bruce leans forward and presses a light kiss to Tim’s forehead. “Are you sure that you don’t want Ace?”

“I’m sure.”

Only after Bruce’s eyes flicker over Tim’s face, looking for-- _something_ , does Bruce nod. “All right. I’ll be in the den if you need me.” He pats Tim’s shoulder before walking over to the doorway. Pausing next to the door, Bruce turns and smiles over his shoulder at Tim before disappearing into the hallway. The door shuts with a quiet click behind him, leaving Tim alone with his new weighted blanket.

* * *

“Hey, champ,” Bruce smiles as he sits next down to Tim on the sofa in the den. He’s wearing the socks with Dick’s face on them that Dick got him on the second night of Hanukkah. “What are you working on?”

“Homework,” Tim replies. “I’m mostly finishing up some notes for my English class. I have an essay due before winter break starts.”

“Ah, I remember how teachers would make every project be due right before break,” Bruce says fondly. Tim makes a face, but Bruce only laughs. “Do you think you could spare a few minutes? I want to go over the game plan for tomorrow.”

Because of course Batman has a plan. Tim shrugs and sets down his book. “I can spare a few minutes,” he says. After all, he’s mostly done with his essay and it would be rude to refuse Bruce anyways.

“Great. First things first: if you decide at any point that you’re uncomfortable, you’re allowed to leave. You can go to your room if you need to cool down or if you get overwhelmed and need a minute to breathe,” Bruce explains seriously. “Don’t worry about asking to be excused. Diana and Clark are very close friends of mine, so you don’t need to worry about manners.”

“Okay,” Tim replies. Leaving randomly is a little weird, but whatever. It’s not like he’ll need to do it; he’s not a toddler with no self-control whatsoever.

“When you first meet them, you don’t need to hug them. You can shake their hands if you’d like, but it doesn’t need to be formal. I’m betting that your parents taught you a gala handshake and a business handshake-- you don’t need to do either of those.”

Tim eyes Bruce warily. “What do you mean?”

“Did your parents ever teach you how to do an informal introduction?” Bruce asks without judgment.

“Yes?”

“Why don’t you show me?” He holds out his hand.

Tim takes Bruce’s hand and shakes it, giving him a bright smile fit for polite company. “Hi, I’m Tim Drake,” he says.

Bruce’s face barely changes as Tim releases his hand. “Why don’t you try relaxing your smile a little? Imagine that you saw Ace doing something cute.”

Tim tries to relax his smile. “Like this?”

Bruce nods. “That’s better,” he says. “Why don’t we try shaking hands again?”

They shake and Tim introduces himself. This time, Bruce gives him a tiny smile at the end. “Good job, sport,” he praises.

Tim can’t stop himself from smiling in return. All he did was smile differently, but whatever. “Thanks.”

“Clark and Diana will get here in the afternoon so they can help us peel potatoes for latkes,” Bruce explains. “After that, we’ll light the hanukkiah. You can light it with them if you’d like, or just Clark and Diana can light it.”

Staring at his hands, Tim contemplates the offer. “They can light it,” he decides at last.

“All right. Afterwards, we’ll eat latkes. I bought some gelt so we can play dreidel after dinner. Have you played before?”

“Of course!” Tim replies defensively. Did Bruce assume that his parents never played dreidel with him?

“Okay,” Bruce says calmly. “We can play dreidel and chat after dinner.” He pauses and then adds, “They know about our nightlife, so you don’t need to lie or try to hide it.”

Tim blinks. “They know? Why?”

Bruce shrugs. “It’s nice to be friends with reporters, and Diana has lots of contacts. Plus, they’re good friends of mine. I trust them.”

“Hmmm.” Tim files the information away for future reference. Something feels fishy, but he can’t quite tell what.

“We’ll open presents after playing dreidel. You don’t need to worry about getting them anything; we’ve got that covered. We’re giving them a gift as a family,” Bruce continues. “They’re going to stay overnight in some of the guest rooms and then leave sometime tomorrow. Does that sound good with you?”

Why is Bruce asking him about if he’s all right with them staying over? “That’s fine,” Tim shrugs.

Bruce watches him for a moment with his unnervingly perceptive eyes-- Batman’s eyes, Tim thinks-- before nodding. “Okay. Well, that’s the plan. Let me know if you have any questions, all right? I’ll let you get back to your studying.”

“Thanks,” Tim replies. Bruce ruffles his hair affectionately before leaving Tim to his work.

* * *

The afternoon of Clark and Diana’s visit finds Tim curled up comfortably on his bed, watching YouTube videos on his phone. Bruce _said_ that there was no need to dress up, but Tim’s mom would no doubt give him a lengthy lecture if she found out that he was wearing anything less than business casual when guests were over. (Even then, business casual is pushing it.) Tim ultimately decided on a sweater on top of a dress shirt and nice black jeans. It’s comfortable but still respectable, which is as much as he can really ask for. Plus, it makes him feel a little less like Janet Drake is about to pop out from behind a corner and scream at him.

The doorbell rings and Tim sets down his phone-- it would be rude to have it with him-- so he can hurry out of his room. He makes it to the top of the staircase just in time to watch a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in flannel lean down to kiss Alfred on the cheek before transferring two pie tins covered in aluminum into his hands.

“--Ma sent these with me to give to you. She said that she’ll give you the recipe the next time that you come over for tea,” the man says.

Alfred nods and accepts the pie tins. “Your mother is a tricky woman, Mr. Kent.”

“Aw, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Clark?”

A hint of a smile flickers across Alfred’s face. “As many times as you visit, Mr. Kent.”

Clark makes a face, but is quickly distracted by Bruce striding into the foyer. The other visitor-- a dark-haired woman-- beams and darts over to Bruce.

“Bruce!” she exclaims, kissing him solidly on the cheek before sweeping him up into a massive hug. Holy shit, did Bruce’s feet just leave the floor? There must be around a six inch height difference between the two and sure, she looks strong, but Bruce isn’t a small person.

“Diana,” Bruce says fondly once she’s set him back down. “Clark. It’s good to see both of you.”

“You say that like you didn’t see us the other day,” Diana replies playfully.

“That was for work,” Clark points out as he wraps Bruce in a hug and gracefully accepts a kiss on the cheek. He steps back from Bruce and his eyes, bright blue behind his thick glasses, go immediately to Tim at the top of the stairs. Tim freezes, staring right back at Clark.

Bruce follows Clark’s gaze, smile softening when he finds Tim. “Hey, buddy. Want to come down and say hi?”

Tim automatically heads down the staircase, one hand trailing along the railing. He reaches the bottom and stops a safe distance away from Clark and Diana, watching them carefully. Diana has a warm smile and brown eyes that glitter as she steps forward to offer Tim her hand.

“Hi, Tim. I’m Diana. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, smiling. Her hand is warm and surprisingly callused. For some reason, it feels like he’s seen her before, but he can’t quite recall where they might have met. At a gala, perhaps?

“Hi,” he replies, feeling a little bit small under Diana’s sharp gaze. Just as Tim retracts his hand, Ace sprints into the foyer and makes a beeline for Diana.

“Ace!” she exclaims and immediately takes a seat on the floor as Ace licks her face and generally loses his mind. “Who’s a good boy! Oh, you’re so handsome,” she coos as Ace wags his tail frantically. Her well-tailored red blouse and black slacks are almost immediately coated in dog hair, but Diana doesn’t seem to mind.

Largely ignoring Diana and Ace’s antics on the floor, Clark extends his hand towards Tim. “I’m Clark Kent.”

“I’m Tim Drake,” he replies, meeting Clark’s eyes evenly as he shakes his hand. They’re a bright, electric blue that’s barely toned down by his glasses. Somehow, his eyes are intensely familiar. Where has Tim seen him before?

Clark smiles. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Tim,” he says. Why does it feel like he’s lying, and why is his voice so familiar?

Wait a second.

The blue eyes, the familiar voice. Strong arms under him, carrying him away from Two-Face’s men. Hadn’t Bruce said that Clark works for the Daily Planet? That means that he’s based in Metropolis, which is exactly where--

“Superman?” Tim breathes, eyes wide as he stares up at Clark before he claps a hand over his mouth, mortified. “Sorry, I--”

Clark’s face splits into a grin, eyes dancing as he lowers himself to crouch in front of Tim. “Geez Louise, Bruce wasn’t lying when he said that you’re a smart cookie.” Tim blinks, momentarily stunned as Clark continues, “It’s good to see you again, Tim, though I’m glad that we’re meeting under better circumstances this time.”

When Clark extends a hand for a fist bump, Tim returns it largely out of reflex. (Jason has taught him well during these past few months.)

“If you’re Superman, then--” Tim turns to look at Diana, who is smiling broadly where she’s seated on the floor. “Are you Wonder Woman?”

The corners of Diana’s eyes crinkle as her smile widens. “You have a good eye, Tim.” She absentmindedly strokes Ace’s head and wow, the woman sitting on the floor and absolutely covered in dog hair is Wonder Woman.

Bruce’s hand settles on Tim’s shoulder, interrupting his moment of _oh no, what do I do now_. He smiles gently down at Tim and squeezes his shoulder.

“Uncle Clark!”

The shout draws everyone’s attention to Dick’s smiling face at the top of the stairs. Without preamble, Dick climbs onto the bannister and does-- oh god, a fucking _backflip_ as he throws himself over the bannister. Tim reaches up to clutch at Bruce’s hand out of sheer panic because oh my god, sure, Dick is Nightwing but he’s also not in his armored suit and that’s probably a thirty foot drop--

Faster than Tim can blink, Clark is five feet away from him and then he’s hovering in midair as he catches Dick. He moves with the impact, flying a few feet sideways to presumably prevent Dick from experiencing the effects of landing directly on the man of steel.

“This is why I have gray hairs,” Bruce sighs even as Dick laughs and Tim watches in a combination of fascination and horror.

Clark sets Dick gently down on the floor before wrapping him in a big hug. “It’s good to see you, kiddo. How have you been?”

Dick beams. “I’m good,” he replies as Jason pops up at the top of the stairs.

“Aunt Diana, do me next!” Jason shouts before throwing himself over the side of the stairs. A puff of dog hair trails in Diana’s wake as she shoots into the air and catches Jason bridal style. Laughing, he throws one arm around her neck before she sets him down on the ground.

Bruce glances down at Tim, whose grip on his hand has slackened. “Do you want to try it?” he asks casually.

Hesitating, Tim glances between Bruce and the top of the stairs. It seems fun, but it also seems kind of childish and improper. Then again, Jason and Dick both did it--

“Do it!” Jason cheers as Dick gives two thumbs up.

At last, Tim looks back at Bruce and gives a little nod. “Okay,” he agrees.

Bruce smiles and smooths his hand over Tim’s hair before glancing over at Clark. “Do you want to go up to the top of the stairs by yourself, or do you want Clark to fly you up?”

Tim gnaws at his lip contemplatively before replying, “Could he please fly me up?”

Diana places a hand over her heart as Clark smiles. “Sure, buddy. Come here?” He kneels on the ground and holds his arms out to Tim. Tim pauses in front of Clark, not quite sure what to do, but Clark expertly hooks one arm around Tim’s knees and presses Tim’s torso to his chest with the other. Then the ground falls away from under Tim’s feet and they’re in the air.

They’re _flying._

Tim clutches at Superman’s shoulder as he stares at the ground as it gets farther and farther away. Bruce is smiling up at him and both Dick and Jason are grinning.

They reach the top of the stairs and Clark sets Tim down on solid ground once again before kneeling in front of him. “There are two ways we could do this,” he explains patiently in a way that faintly reminds Tim of Bruce. “One, you could climb over the bannister yourself. Two, I fly you up and drop you myself. What do you think?”

Tim shifts his weight as he thinks. “...Could you please drop me?”

“Sure thing,” Clark says easily.

“Thank you,” Tim adds quietly.

Clark smiles. It’s more of a Clark Kent smile than a Superman smile, Tim thinks. In the news, Superman’s smile is always tight and guarded. Here, Clark’s smile is toothy and a little bit crooked. It feels more genuine, somehow. “Of course. All right, let me pick you up again and then I can fly up to the chandelier and drop you. Sound good?”

Tim nods and Clark scoops him up again. They float upwards until the high ceiling of the foyer is just a feet feet above their heads.

“Ready? Do you have your phone on you? I don’t want you to drop it.”

Tim forces himself to loosen his grip on Clark’s shoulder and nods, trying to ignore how high up from the ground they are. “I’m ready. My phone is in my room.”

“Great! In that case, we should be good to go. I’m going to count down from three and I’ll drop you when I hit zero, okay? Three… two…” Tim forces himself to let go of Clark’s neck and relax even as his heartbeat goes up by a few notches in anticipation. “One… zero!”

As promised, Clark lets go of Tim and then he’s falling, air whipping past his face. Tim doesn’t necessarily scream, but he does let out a yelp that might be called a scream in certain circles. His stomach rises into his throat as he plummets and the ground rushes towards him.

He’s forty feet in the air, thirty feet, twenty feet--

A pair of arms materializes, wrapping around Tim’s torso to carry him bridal style, and then his descent slows before stopping entirely.

“Whoah,” Tim breathes, and then he’s being passed over to Bruce.

Bruce smiles at him, shifting Tim a little so that he might be more easily carried. “So, what do you think?”

Still stunned, Tim doesn’t think to protest the treatment. “Wow,” he whispers breathlessly, clutching at Bruce’s shoulder with one hand. A thought occurs to him and he twists to look at Clark. “How do you calculate the time you need to slow down so the people you’re catching don’t go splat?”

The corner of Diana’s mouth twitches before she turns around, grabbing an unsuspecting Dick and whisking him into the air. Clark ignores Dick’s yelp of surprise with practiced ease and meets Tim’s eyes steadily. “Lots of practice, but the actual physics of it is actually pretty straightforward. You just have to know the acceleration due to gravity on Earth and the velocity that the person is falling at.”

Tim nods. “That makes sense,” he says slowly.

“Bruce set up a practice course in the Justice League’s headquarters for all of us fliers to practice catching people and decelerating,” Clark adds.

Tim turns to Bruce. “You did?”

Bruce nods. “I did,” he confirms.

“Huh.” Tim considers this information for a moment before realizing that he’s still being carried. “You can put me down now. I don’t want your arms to get tired.”

“Are you sure? My arms aren’t tired at all.”

“I’m sure.”

“All right, chum.” Kneeling, Bruce carefully sets Tim on the down and ruffles his hair before straightening up.

“You know, Bruce used to carry Dick around all the time,” Clark says, smiling. “I think I have a few videos of it somewhere on my phone--”

Ten minutes later, they’re all clustered around the kitchen table with potatoes and vegetable peelers in their hand. (In the case of Clark and Diana, Bruce presents them with special titanium-reinforced vegetable peelers that are supposed to be to withstand at least a fraction of their superstrength.) Alfred fetches a lint roller for Diana so she won’t get dog hair all over the potatoes.

Clark spends a few minutes sifting through photos on his phone before setting it down in front of Tim. “I finally found the video! Man, I always forget how little Dick was.”

Bruce leans over to peer at the phone over Tim’s shoulder. A soft smile spreads across his face when he catches a glimpse of a younger Bruce decked out in the batsuit with a young sleeping Dick dressed as Robin in his arms. Judging by the angle of the camera and the number of heads poking into the frame, the person taking the video must have been trying to be stealthy about it.

_“--and that is exactly why we should enhance our efforts towards intergalactic diplomacy as well as improving our public relations on Earth,” Batman finishes. “I will now open the floor for questions.”_

_Several hands shoot up._

_“Yes, Diana?”_

_The camera pans over to get a shaky shot of Diana’s back. She’s decked out in full Wonder Woman gear, complete with her glowing lasso coiled at her hip. “Thank you for your informative presentation, Batman. I’m sure that I’m not the only one with questions, so I will attempt to be brief.”_

_Under the cowl, Bruce’s mouth twitches in a way that Tim associates with Bruce trying to hide his amusement when Dick and Jason are doing something particularly ridiculous. “Of course.”_

_“First off, how should we prioritize intergalactic diplomacy versus terran diplomacy? Secondly--”_

_They dissolve into a brief but intense exchange._

_“--moreover, I don’t believe that would be a productive approach,” Batman says as Robin stirs in his arms. Robin shifts slightly and wraps his arms tighter around Batman’s neck, pressing his face into the junction between his neck and shoulder. Batman absentmindedly strokes Robin’s hair with his free hand and presses a kiss to his temple, which is met with a few_ aww _s from the audience._

_Someone who must be Green Arrow raises his hand. Without waiting to be called on, he calls, “Batman, would you be more comfortable if we paused so you could put Robin down for a moment? Your arms must be getting tired.”_

_Batman’s free arm curls protectively around Robin’s back. “He’s my Robin,” he replies solemnly. “He’s not heavy.”_

_The camera pans back over to Diana whispering something to Black Canary, who is wearing sweatpants over her usual uniform. Both of them have their hands held over their mouths and look to be cooing over the display. Behind them, Martian Manhunter stands with his arms crossed, smiling._

The video ends and Tim looks up to find Bruce reeling Dick in for a hug.

“I remember when you were little,” Bruce says with a soft smile, tucking Dick’s head under his chin. “You were so easy to pick up and carry around. You were so cute.”

Pulling his legs up to his chest, Dick folds up his five foot ten frame so he can slide onto Bruce’s lap. “I’m still little and cute,” he declares, leaning into Bruce.

“That you are,” Bruce murmurs, kissing the top of Dick’s head. “You’ll always be my little Robin.”

Jason stares down at his potato as he peels it, but then Dick taps his shoulder. “Come here, Little Wing,” he says fondly. “It’s group hug time. You too, Tim.”

Through a combination of Dick and Bruce’s efforts, Tim is efficiently wrangled into the group hug. It’s not the most comfortable hug he’s been in-- Dick’s shoulder is wedged into Tim’s side and Jason’s elbow is pressed against Tim’s arm-- but it’s nice nonetheless.

When Tim pulls away, Diana is smiling gently at him. He flashes a quick smile back before ducking his head and resuming peeling his potato.

* * *

At sundown, they gather in the foyer once more. Diana’s singing voice is surprisingly lovely as she joins them in singing the two blessings, and even Clark can carry a tune. Bruce places the candles in the hanukkiah and Diana and Clark hold the shamash together as they light them.

Tim takes a deep breath as the gentle flicker of candle light fills the foyer once more, and almost feels whole.

* * *

Dinner is a far more lively affair than Tim is used to. There isn’t enough space at the kitchen table, so they eat in the dining room instead. Tim ends up sitting between Bruce and Jason, who keep heaping food onto his plate. Alfred made a truly absurd amount of latkes, but after watching how the five assembled superheroes eat, Tim decides that perhaps it’s not an absurd amount of latkes after all. After all, Alfred is never wrong, especially when it comes to food.

Bruce produces a bottle of white wine-- already decanted, thank you very much-- and pours a glass for himself, Clark, and Diana. They all remark on its wine-y flavors; it’s very old wine, which apparently makes it taste better.

“Dad,” Dick says, immediately drawing Bruce’s attention.

“Yes?”

Dick gives Bruce his best puppy eyes, which are pretty damn good. “Can I have a glass of wine?”

Diana hides a smile behind her hand. Clark, on the other hand, is not nearly as subtle and instead chuckles as he takes a sip of his wine.

Bruce meets Dick’s eyes evenly. Tim stays very, very still lest he disturb their staring contest.

“I’m legal in Europe,” Dick points out. “Also in Canada. Plus, isn’t my public persona supposed to be a big partier? I should have a reasonable knowledge of wine.”

“...just one glass,” Bruce says finally. “But I’m pouring it for you.”

Dick grins. “Thanks, Dad!”

In response, Bruce merely grunts and fetches a wine glass from the china cabinet behind him. He sets it down on the table in front of Dick. With a surgeon’s precision, he pours exactly one glass of wine. Dick reaches for it, but Bruce doesn’t relinquish the glass.

“We’re reviewing ground rules first,” he states.

“Okay.”

“One,” Bruce says, “No climbing up things for at least a few hours. I already have enough gray hair, we don’t need to add more.”

Dick looks like he wants to protest, but he wisely stays silent.

“Two, don’t chug it. This is nice wine. And three, please make a reasonable attempt to act like the only alcohol you’ve ever drank has been the drinks that I’ve given you.”

“Will do!” Dick replies cheerily.

Bruce sighs heavily and hands the glass to Dick before casting a pleading look at Clark and Diana. “I feel old,” he complains.

Giggling, Diana takes a sip of her wine. “There, there, Bruce,” she smirks. “It happens to us all.”

Bruce makes a very mature face at her and plops back down in his seat. “My children are going to kill me,” he groans.

“I’m sure they will,” Clark replies, still smiling.

Alfred raises a single eyebrow. “Then why did you acquire so many children?”

To Tim’s surprise, Bruce loops an arm around his shoulders and pulls him closer so Bruce can rest his head on Tim’s shoulder. “Because they are all wonderful, precious kids who deserve the world,” he shoots back.

Tim flushes and Bruce kisses his temple before releasing him. “What do you say that we move this into the den?”

Clark stands up. “Sure, I’ll get everyone’s dishes.”

“Certainly not, young man. You’re a guest,” Alfred replies, pushing his own chair back as he prepares to stand up.

“I’m a guest with superspeed,” Clark points out. “It’ll take less than a second; I swear it won’t be any trouble.”

After a moment, Alfred relents and waves a hand to indicate that Clark may proceed. Tim gets the feeling that this is an old argument.

“Mind the carpets,” Bruce says.

Clark shoots him a thumbs up, and then there’s a light burst of wind and the dirty dishes are gone from the table. Gone, too, is the platter of latkes and the fancy serving dishes of applesauce and sour cream that Alfred insisted they use instead of spooning everything straight out of their containers.

“The latkes are in tupperware in the fridge and the dishes are in the dishwasher,” Clark reports, picking up his wine glass.

Alfred stands up and picks up his mug of tea. “Thank you, Mr. Kent. Now, shall we go open some presents?”

* * *

Diana passes out several narrow boxes, all wrapped in shiny silver paper with fanciful bows. Bruce joins her in handing out presents and refills Alfred’s glass of wine before taking a seat on the sofa next to Clark.

Jason peers at the box as if he could see through the cardboard and into the box itself. Clark, who does have x-ray vision, squints for a moment, eyes flashing, before snorting and taking another sip of his wine.

Twisting to face Clark, Bruce raises an eyebrow at him. “What is it?”

Clark shakes his head as Diana grins gleefully.

“Can we open them now?” Jason asks eagerly, looking over at Bruce. Bruce waves a hand in permission and Jason tears into the box.

Tim opens his gift far more carefully, unfurling the wrapping paper and removing the top of the box. Inside, cradled in a nest of soft fabric, lays--

“A knife!” Jason shouts.

“NO!” Dick yells in reply before cackling.

It’s really a beautiful knife. Not that Tim has much experience with knives, of course, but its blade is about the size of his palm and engraved with what looks like something in ancient Greek. Its hilt is what feels like fine leather that matches its sheath. The leather of the sheath itself is stitched so it forms a lovely swirling pattern and the whole thing is attached to a leather belt by what looks like metal links studded with shining turquoise gems.

“Diana,” Bruce says slowly. Tim tenses, glancing up at them.

“Yes, Bruce?”

“Did you give my children knives for--” a brief, long-suffering pause, “The fifth year in a row?”

“Actually, I think it’s only the third year in a row. Four years ago, she got them swords,” Clark says helpfully.

Diana’s grin widens and Bruce sighs.

“Here, open yours,” she suggests, nudging a gift bag towards him.

Bruce casts her a suspicious look before rummaging around in the bag and pulling two large bottles of wine out of it. He peers at the labels before nodding.

“Two bottles of Themysciran wine whose alcohol content has been adjusted to suit the human metabolism,” she says proudly.

Glancing up from the labels, Bruce remarks drily, “I don’t know why you’re concerned about me getting alcohol poisoning when you’ve armed my children.”

“What a pity it would be to arm our children, Master Bruce,” Alfred remarks. “Well, at least she didn’t get them batarangs.”

Groaning, Bruce leans back into the sofa. “I’m being attacked in my own home,” he grumbles.

Clark pats his shoulder sympathetically.

“Hey, Tim,” Dick says casually. Tim jumps and twists to look at him as Dick pats the couch cushion next to him. “Come sit with me! I want to cuddle.” He smiles beatifically.

Tim casts a suspicious glance at Dick, but only receives a smile in return. Finally, Tim gives in and carries his presents over from the armchair in the corner of the room-- safe and out of the way-- over to the couch closer to the center. As soon as he sits down, Dick wraps an arm around his shoulders and presses his cheek to Tim’s hair.

“Awww, you’re too good for us, Timberly,” Dick says fondly. “Jason, get over here. We’re going to make a cuddle pile so we can look adorable while we open our Hanukkah presents.”

Tim looks over to Bruce for help, but Bruce only smiles gently at him as Jason takes a seat on Dick’s other side. With a resigned sigh, Tim lets Dick cuddle him as they open the rest of their gifts while Clark and Bruce discuss-- something. Diana and Alfred both seem amused, so it’s probably fine.

“Thanks for the lightsabers, Uncle Clark!” Jason calls over to Clark.

“What is it with getting my children weapons for Hanukkah?” Bruce sighs.

“Well, Ma is still making the other part of their gift. We’re hoping that it’ll be ready around Christmas,” Clark explains. “Also, don’t think that you can change the subject on me, Bruce. What do you mean, your school didn’t teach you how to square dance in fifth grade? Or even just line dancing, honestly. That’s practically a rite of passage.”

Bruce shrugs and contemplates his glass of wine. “Apparently elitist parents would rather teach their children how to waltz rather than square dance.”

Clark frowns. “We have to fix this. Alfred, would you mind--?”

“Already on it, Mr. Kent,” Alfred replies smoothly, fiddling with something on his phone. A moment later, what Tim presumes is square dancing music pours through the speakers in the den.

Clark stands up, one hand on his hip as he offers the other to Bruce. “Come on, let’s dance.”

“Are we really going to do this,” says Bruce, but he sets down his glass of wine nonetheless and accepts Clark’s hand. Hardly blinking, Clark pulls Bruce up from the sofa with little effort and takes a few steps towards the middle of the den.

“We should move the coffee table-- oh, thank you, Diana,” Bruce says as Diana lifts the enormous wooden coffee table with one hand and gently deposits it on the side of the room.

Clark holds up his hands to Bruce, who squints at him. “Oh, are you leading?”

“I’m the one trying to teach you, dummy. Of course I’m leading.”

Bruce sighs and takes Clark’s hands, letting him adjust Bruce’s grip and stance until he’s satisfied.

“All right, so most square dancing will have a caller announcing moves,” Clark explains. “It’s really just a set of moves that someone else puts together for you. Here, this is one of the more common ones--”

Tim watches, bewildered, as Clark and Bruce dance around the room. For someone who claims to not know how to square dance, Bruce’s coordination saves him from making a complete fool of himself. Jason has his phone out and shamelessly records the whole thing.

On the other side of the room, Alfred alternates between sipping at his wine and calling out helpful instructions such as, “Do be careful to not tread on Mr. Kent’s toes!”

Diana glances over at Tim and winks at him, giggling, before taking out her own phone to presumably take her own video of Clark and Bruce dancing around the den.

Eventually, the song ends, but the nonsense does not.

“Hey, B, do you know how the Cotton Eye Joe dance?” Dick asks innocently.

Bruce frowns. “The what?”

Eyes glinting, Dick stands up. “Here, Uncle Clark and I can show you. You’ll love it.” He surreptitiously glances over at Jason, who pulls out his phone and gives him a thumbs up. “Okay, so here’s how it goes--”

* * *

That night, Tim is just climbing into bed when there’s a soft knock on his door. It opens a moment later and Bruce steps in, still wearing his dark turtleneck sweater.

“Hey, sport,” Bruce says, walking over to stand next to Tim’s bed. “I wanted to drop by to check in with you and say goodnight. I know that today was busy.”

Tim shrugs and wriggles underneath the covers. “I mean, it wasn’t bad. Clark and Diana are nice.”

A soft smile graces Bruce’s face. “I’m glad that you like them. They adore you, you know.”

“Really?” Tim frowns as Bruce takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “Why? I didn’t really do anything for them.”

“They think that you’re a very kind and intelligent young man,” Bruce replies easily. “They’re also very impressed that you managed to figure out their identities so quickly.”

Tim flushes. “I mean, I’ve seen videos of Diana giving speeches in my history class,” he tries to explain, but Bruce merely raises an eyebrow.

“So have most people in the world, but most people haven’t figured it out. Do you want your weighted blanket?”

“Don’t worry, I can get it myself--”

Before Tim can protest more, Bruce stands up and fetches the weighted blanket from where it’s neatly folded in the chair next to the window. Unfolding the blanket, Bruce carefully lays it across the bed. The gentle weight is comforting and Tim wiggles his toes just to feel how the blanket presses down on them.

“Better?” Bruce asks.

Tim nods. “Yeah, thank you.”

“Need anything else?”

“No, I’m good.”

“All right.” Bruce nods and leans forward to kiss Tim’s forehead. “Good night, Tim. See you in the morning.”

“Good night,” Tim echoes.

Bruce steps out of the room, closing the door behind himself with a soft click. Tim touches the softness of his weighted blanket, closes his eyes, and lets his exhaustion drag him down into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to my beta, [S](https://chocolateandsilver.tumblr.com/), and [goldkirk](https://goldkirk.tumblr.com/), for being wonderful!! 
> 
> If you haven't already seen it, Nostra made some absolutely GORGEOUS art for the first chapter of birds fly!!! Come see his art of [[Tim finding an injured Nightwing in a dumpster]](https://acidulication.tumblr.com/post/624197043502661632/if-tim-was-a-normal-person-he-would-probably-mind) and while you're at it, [[check out the rest of his art here]](https://acidulication.tumblr.com/tagged/nostra%27s-art)!!
> 
> Thank you all for reading!! <3


	17. still, i'm pinned under the weight of what i believed would keep me safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanukkah is over, and everything goes back to normal. 
> 
> Except... well. Tim will be fine. Really, he'll be all right. He just needs to wait this out, to be good enough, and then everything will be okay again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Pluto by Sleeping At Last. 
> 
> Some Timmys were hurt in the making of this chapter. 
> 
> **************CWs:** Emotional abuse, physical abuse, light domestic violence, panic attacks, dissociation. This chapter is pretty heavy. Please take care of yourselves and step away if you need a break!! <3 <3

For breakfast the next morning, they have a smorgasbord of eggs, turkey sausage, pancakes, and hash browns. Clark dons one of his gifts from Bruce-- an apron that declares _BATMAN IS BETTER_ \--and helps Alfred cook. Tim helps chop up vegetables for the putrid-looking green shake that Bruce likes to consume on most mornings.

Diana, clad in leggings and a sweatshirt, walks into the kitchen a minute before Dick does. Both of them are freshly showered.

“How was your run?” Alfred asks as he sets a steaming pot of the Themysciran tea that Diana gave him on the table.

“It was excellent, thank you,” Diana replies with a smile. “Dick kept up admirably.”

Dick slumps somewhat bonelessly into his seat and buries his face in the table, mumbling something into the wood.

“What was that, Master Dick?”

“He said that Diana is ‘too damn fast’,” Clark says as he flips the sausages.

“Language, Master Dick,” Alfred gently chastises. This elicits a groan from Dick but he otherwise doesn’t move.

Just then, Jason stumbles into the kitchen with his hair sticking up everywhere and still wearing his Wonder Woman pajama pants. “Mornin’,” he mumbles, plunking himself down in his usual seat and accepting the tea that Alfred pours for him with a quiet thanks.

“Is Bruce awake yet?” Diana wonders, and it takes Tim a moment to realize that she’s specifically asking Clark.

Barely missing a beat, Clark pours a mug of coffee and replies, “He’s on his way down.” He adds a few splashes of Bruce’s favorite caramel creamer and leaves the mug at Bruce’s usual seat at the kitchen table.

Seconds later, a bleary-eyed Bruce walks in. He glances between the coffee and the rest of the kitchen’s occupants. “Mine?” he grunts, pointing to the coffee.

“Yes, that’s yours,” Alfred replies. “My, we’ve been graced with a single syllable. How blessed we are on this fair morning.”

“Good morning,” Bruce grates out, taking a swig of his coffee.

Pleased, Alfred nods. “I am well,” he says even though Bruce didn’t ask. “Breakfast will be ready shortly.”

After Jason has drunk enough of the rather delicious Themysciran tea, he slides out of his seat and pads over to the collection of flour and other baking essentials that Alfred has left out for him. “I’m gonna make muffins,” he announces, grabbing the folded apron that Alfred has left on the counter for him.

(Hilariously enough, it is also a Wonder Woman apron. Alfred has a good sense of humor.)

Breakfast is just as lively as dinner was, with dishes being passed around. Clark, Diana, Dick, and Alfred fulfill their duties as the resident Morning People and make most of the conversation. Bruce drinks his coffee and slowly starts to look less dead, Jason shoves food into his face and occasionally checks the timer on his phone to see if the muffins are done baking, and Tim drinks his tea and stays largely quiet.

After all, his brain isn’t fully online yet. He wouldn’t want to blurt something out without thinking and embarrass himself in front of Superman and Wonder Woman-- or worse, upset them.

Bruce and Clark start lightly arguing after Clark makes a passing remark about the Gotham Knights’ losing streak that season. In return, Bruce disparages the disgustingly clean and artificial metal-and-glass that practically everything in Metropolis is made of. Clark compares Gotham and its sports teams to a latrine trench full of toxic waste. Bruce fires back with a comment about how Metropolis’s best quality is its ability to attract murderous robots, murderous aliens, etcetera.

It all goes off the rails once Diana comments on how Themyscira puts both Gotham and Metropolis to shame. Alfred has to give them all A Look, and that stops the argument in its tracks.

Tim hopes that he’s doing a good job of hiding the shaking in his hands and how much he wants to run, run, run far away from the kitchen table and curl into a little ball and hide somewhere quiet and _safe_. Bruce squeezes his shoulder and gives him a concerned look, but Tim just sends him a smile that hopefully screams _I’m fine_ and doesn’t encourage any uncomfortable questions. Eventually, Bruce’s hand falls away, but Tim still catches him sending little worried glances when Bruce thinks that he isn’t looking.

Clark insists on doing the dishes again and Alfred puts up a weak fight before Clark uses his superspeed to do them anyways. And then there’s a complicated process of Clark and Diana gathering the gifts that they were given and packing their things and saying goodbye.

Bruce kisses them on the cheek again and in return, he’s hugged so hard that his feet are lifted clean off the floor. Diana gives Tim a fist bump and Clark ruffles his hair with a smile. They hug the rest of the Waynes, including Ace. (Once again, Diana gets positively covered in Ace’s fur, but she doesn’t seem to care.)

And then Clark and Diana leave Tim’s life in much the same manner as they entered it: quickly, and with much fanfare.

* * *

The rest of Hanukkah passes quickly. As promised, Bruce eases Tim into a surprisingly gentle training routine. It’s mostly morning runs, which kind of suck but are also kind of fun because Dick and Jason (when he can be dragged out of bed) chase each other around while talking and laughing. Bruce always stays next to Tim, even when Tim is sweaty and gross and panting with his hands on his knees.

There’s some strength training too, but Tim can only do a fraction of the number of pushups that Jason can, let alone Bruce. It’s-- demoralizing, a little bit, but Tim keeps going. What else can he do? Afterwards, Alfred always shoves water and sports drinks and heaping plates of food at them.

Tim tries his best, he really does. Bruce is already taking so much time out of his already busy schedule to train him; the least that Tim can do is put forth a good effort.

Christmas arrives quickly. Dick and Jason help set up a tree in the corner of the den-- an artificial one, so they aren’t cutting down a new tree every year. (Also, Poison Ivy has a thing against cutting down trees and even if you’re Batman, it’s generally safer to avoid pissing her off .)

They decorate it with a bunch of ornaments, some of which look to have been made by very small, clumsy hands. Alfred looks at these ones fondly when he thinks that nobody else is watching. (Tim sees, though. He’s very good at staying unnoticed.) There’s tinsel draped around the tree and someone hides candy canes in the branches that Dick delightfully eats in full view of Bruce and Alfred, but neither of them seem to really care.

For the most part, Dick stays in Gotham for the days between the end of Hanukkah and the beginning of Christmas. He cites something about “villains always trying wacky hijinks around Christmastime”. As a Gothamite, Tim can confirm that nothing good ever happens on a widely-celebrated holiday.

The news reports leading up to Christmas support this conclusion, as do the ever-growing dark circles under Bruce and Dick’s eyes. On Christmas Eve, Alfred lets Tim sit in the Batcave while the Bats deal with some plot constructed by Calendar Man. Something about a bomb in the giant (and frankly unnecessary) Christmas tree next to town hall?

At the end of the night, everyone stumbles out of the Batmobile smelling a little of smoke but otherwise in one piece. Alfred herds them into the showers to change into their pajamas before shooing them into bed.

Despite his exhaustion, Bruce still tucks Tim into bed that night. It’s kind of stupid because Tim isn’t a baby and Bruce is tired from dealing with Important Batman Business, but he does it anyways.

In the morning, Dick wakes everyone up at precisely eight o’clock by blasting Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You” in the hallway. (Everyone except Alfred, that is, who has someone grown past the need for sleep and is already in the kitchen making breakfast.)

After consuming as much of Alfred’s pancakes as Tim can physically fit into his body, the Waynes rush into the den to open their presents. Tim stares at the small mountain of presents with his name on them.

“Is this-- necessary?” He asks, wide-eyed. “I don’t need so much, you didn’t need to go to all of this trouble--”

Bruce cuts him off by dropping a well-wrapped present into Tim’s lap. “We wanted to,” he says simply. “Also, Clark dropped this off earlier today. It’s a gift from his mother.”

Tim looks up at Bruce questioningly before opening the present, and-- oh. It’s a cable knit sweater made of some of the softest mint green yarn Tim has ever felt. He runs his hands over it, marveling at the texture.

“Clark’s mother does love to knit,” Bruce remarks, smiling.

Tim freezes. “She made this?”

“I believe so, yes. She’s rather fond of making sweaters.”

“But that-- doesn’t that take a lot of time?” He questions.

Bruce shrugs and ruffles Tim’s hair. “You’re worth the time,” he promises.

Tim stares down at the sweater in his hands, protests sitting heavy on his tongue. Before he can reply, Bruce kisses the top of his head and walks away to hand Jason and Dick their presents. Tim looks between Bruce’s retreating back and the sweater in his hands, fingers tightening in the fabric.

Clark’s mother doesn’t even know him. She spent too much time and effort on him. But this is a gift and it would be rude to refuse it, right? Tim carefully refolds the sweater and places it on the couch next to him. It’s too late to get rid of it now.

* * *

The Bats all stay out late again that night. When they return, Bruce ices a cluster of bruises on his ribs and Alfred stitches up a cut on Dick’s arm. Jason sits next to Tim in the medbay’s surprisingly comfortable armchairs, watching the whole process. Eventually, Tim’s eyelids grow too heavy to keep them open.

He’ll just close his eyes for a moment. Just a minute, that’s all.

When he wakes up next, he’s in his bed. It’s the middle of the night and there’s a comfortable pressure enveloping him. His weighted blanket, he realizes. Huh, he’s pretty sure that he didn’t fall asleep here.

Oh, well. He probably was too tired to remember dragging himself into bed. Tim tugs his blankets up to his chin and goes back to sleep.

* * *

The next day, Tim goes back to Drake Manor.

Alfred cooks him a massive send-off breakfast, complete with scones baked by Jason and homemade strawberry jam. After breakfast, Dick and Jason insist on helping Tim pack. Dick’s phone blares trashy pop music as they whirl around his room, asking if he wants to take this and that with him or leave it here. It’s-- surprisingly nice, if Tim is being honest.

An hour before the Drakes’ flight is due to land, Tim says goodbye to Ace, who licks his face and wags his fluffy tail. Everyone piles into the car with Tim’s things and Bruce drives all of them over to Drake Manor. Dick and Jason hop out of the car and help carry Tim’s bags inside as they loudly sing Party in the USA. Alfred heads into the kitchen and starts inspecting the sparse contents of the fridge while Bruce helps Tim bring the last of his things upstairs.

Between Dick and Jay’s singing and the sheer number of people in Drake Manor, the house is more lively than usual. Soon, Tim’s bags are unpacked and everything is stowed into its rightful place.

Hands on his hips, Tim surveys his room before nodding. Yes, this is right. Everything is exactly where it should be.

Bruce watches him as he leans against the doorway. “Your parents’ flight should be landing right about now,” he says casually.

Tim pulls the sleeves of his sweater down over his wrists and the smooth face of his watch. “Yeah.”

“If you want, we can leave soon and let you get settled in before they get here.”

He bites his lip before nodding. “That’s a good idea.”

Bruce nods once before stepping forward to pull Tim into a hug. “We really do love it when you stay with us, sport. You’re a joy to have around.”

Tim leans into Bruce and lets him press the side of his face into Bruce’s chest. “Thanks,” he says quietly, loosely wrapping his arms around Bruce. He lets Bruce hold him for a while before stepping away, as is proper.

Smiling faintly, Bruce places a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Let’s go let the others say goodbye to you, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Tim replies before turning and heading downstairs. He finds Jason helping Alfred pour something from a saucepan into tupperware while Dick sits on the kitchen island, munching on an apple.

“Hey, Timbo. We just threw together a batch of soup for you just in case you get hungry later,” Jason greets him.

“Oh,” Tim says. “Thank you. You didn’t need to do that.”

“We wanted to do it,” Alfred replies simply as he carries the dirty saucepan over to the sink and starts cleaning it.

Tim nods and just watches everyone for a moment before Dick hops off the counter and wraps him in a hug. “We’re going to miss you, Timbo. Come visit my island in Animal Crossing, okay?”

“Also, you know, come visit us in person,” Jason adds. “If your parents let you, I mean.”

“I will,” Tim says, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. Right, his parents will be around. He’ll need to ask their permission for things like that. He lets Dick hug him and allows Jason’s hug soon after that. And then all of the Waynes are hugging him goodbye and Tim doesn’t know why he feels so weird. His parents are coming back. Surely he should be excited, but instead he just feels kind of strange and that makes his stomach twist with guilt.

“Take care of yourself, Master Tim,” Alfred tells him as he tucks Tim under his chin. “I’m only a text away if you ever need anything.”

Bruce kneels on the floor to hug Tim, wrapping his arms around him comfortably. When he draws away, he lets his hands slide down to Tim’s elbows. “Tim, buddy, remember what I said last time we dropped you off at home? I told you that you can always call me at any time, no matter what. If you need me to come pick you up or even if you just want to talk, I’ll be there. Okay?”

Tim nods. “Okay,” he says quietly.

Bruce kisses his forehead before straightening up. He pulls Tim in for one last quick hug before releasing him. “We’ll head out and let you get settled in. But remember--”

“I can call you anytime. I know, Bruce,” Tim replies, smiling ever so slightly.

Bruce smiles back at him and claps him on the shoulder one last time, and then the Waynes file out and their car drives away and Drake Manor is as empty as ever.

Tim heads back upstairs to finish unpacking. After all, his parents would hate to return and see his messy room. Next, he unloads his clothes into the dresser and starts moving all of his school supplies out of his backpack and into his desk. However, when he unzips the last compartment of his backpack, something small and soft and brown tumbles out.

Frowning, Tim picks up the mysterious object. It’s a stuffed dog, small enough to fit in his hand. With its pointed ears and brown and black coat, it almost looks like Ace. It’s definitely not his, and Tim certainly doesn’t recall putting it in his backpack.

Did one of the Waynes sneak it into his bag? It seems like something they would do. Come to think of it, he’s pretty sure that Dick was the one to carry his backpack into Drake Manor.

Tim sighs and tucks the stuffed dog under some blankets in the closet, right next to the knife that Diana gave him. He’d rather not have his parents try to confiscate the stuffed animal just in case Dick wants it back later. He’s just keeping it safe, is all.

With the stuffed dog safely hidden, Tim continues unpacking. One of his duffel bags is strangely heavy and… boxy? He’s reasonably certain that he didn’t put any boxes in there. When he opens it, he finds boxes of granola bars, little squeezable containers of fruit and applesauce, and two jars of peanut butter. All nonperishables, all things that would go excellently in his food stash.

Is this Jason’s doing? It must be. Jason was the only one who knew about his food stash. Tim frowns, staring at the extra food shoved into his bag. It’s not like he can throw it away-- it would be such a waste. Since it’s here, he might as well add it to his hoard, but that doesn’t mean that he has to be happy about it.

He’s just barely finished shoving his last shirt into the dresser when he hears the garage door open. Hastily closing the dresser drawer, Tim scrambles down the stairs. The front door opens right as he lands on the last step.

“Mom!” Tim exclaims as his mother strides through the door.

She turns to face him, eyes narrowing, and oh no. He can already tell that she’s in a bad mood. “Tim,” she greets him coolly, “Can you go grab our bags, sweetie? I don’t feel like dealing with more messes today.”

Tim nods. “Yeah, of course. You must be tired from traveling and everything, I totally understand.”

She breezes past him, eyes hard. “Yes, well, I’m also tired of cleaning up the circus from your field trip. It was _so_ kind of the police to get _child protective services_ involved.”

“Oh,” Tim says, resisting the urge to curl into himself as she storms past. Proper posture is everything, after all. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

His mother pauses and smiles coldly. “You can help by taking care of our bags like I asked you to,” she says sharply.

“Yes, right, sorry,” Tim replies before scurrying outside. He just barely manages to avoid running into his father, who is lugging a suitcase along.

“Whoah.” His father steps to the side as Tim stumbles.

“Sorry,” Tim says quickly, righting himself.

With a shrug, his father firmly claps him on the shoulder, making Tim jump, before continuing on into the house. Tim grabs the nearest suitcases he can find and wheels them into the house. He adds them to the luggage pile at the base of the stairs and heads back outside as he comes up with a game plan. It seems like his father isn’t in a bad mood right now, but his mother definitely is. Maybe it would help if Tim made lunch? They’re more likely to get angrier if they’re both hungry, plus it might help their moods if they saw him being helpful. It’ll take another task off their plates too.

After everything has been brought inside, Tim heads for the kitchen. He starts pulling Alfred’s soup and ingredients for sandwiches out of the fridge as his father sits down at the dining room table. The door to the home office opens and Tim stiffens as he turns on the stovetop burner and pours the soup into a saucepan. His mother’s high heels click on the marble floor as she strides towards the dining table.

“What are you doing?” she demands and Tim jumps before realizing that she wasn’t addressing him. “Why are you on your phone? You need to cancel our hotel reservations.”

“I was checking my email--”

“No, I don’t want to hear any excuses,” she snaps. “Were you seriously going to let me deal with the media circus by myself? I can’t believe you. First, you missed that call from Queen Industries and now this.”

There’s a sharp clatter as his father sets his phone down on the table and Tim tenses. “Like I was saying, I was just _checking my email_ to see if their representative replied to my email--”

“I don’t care about their damn email! I care about _you_ canceling our hotel reservations because, in case you missed the memo, we won’t _be in Moscow_ next week,” his mother retorts.

“Fine!” Throwing his hands up in the air, his father stands up and pushes in his chair. Its legs screech against the floor, producing an ugly, grating sound. “I’ll go be your secretary and cancel the reservations. It’s not like I own the company or anything.”

“If you own the company, then why don’t you act like it?”

Tim stares at the light bubbles rising to the surface of the soup and stays as still as humanly possible, willing himself to fade into the background. The reflection in the metal range hood lets him see his father take a menacing step closer to his mother. “I do act like it, but somebody keeps undermining me and disrespecting me,” his father growls.

His mother tries to turn on her heel and walk away, but his father’s hand shoots out and grabs her arm.

“Let go,” she says coldly.

“Not until you apologize.”

She yanks at his arm, and then there’s a harsh smacking sound as his father slaps his mother across the face and Tim’s blood is cold, cold cold. He stays frozen, an ice sculpture in the middle of the kitchen as his mother yanks her arm out of his father’s grip.

“I’m not going to talk to you until you’re ready to be civil,” his mother announces as she stalks away. A moment later, the office door slams shut.

Tim waits, wooden spoon in hand as he stirs the soup and very carefully does not look behind himself. Footsteps echo through the kitchen, and then Tim’s father is behind him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he snaps.

Jolting, Tim turns around as his heart rate skyrockets. “I’m making lunch for you?” he says weakly.

“Are you sassing me?” his father demands.

Tim shakes his head frantically. “No, Dad.”

Eyes narrowing, Tim’s father stares him down for a minute as Tim’s heart does its level best to escape his body. Finally, his father scoffs and turns away. “Don’t make a mess.”

“I won’t,” Tim promises. He stays very, very still until his father’s heavy footsteps head up the stairs and a door slams.

With numb hands, Tim pours the soup into three bowls and assembles the sandwiches. He makes sure to thoroughly scrub his workstation so there aren’t any crumbs of drops of soup left behind. Tim leaves his parents’ food on separate plates on the kitchen counter and, after a moment of hesitation, marks them with sticky notes that read “Mom” and “Dad”.

At last, he’s able to grab a plate with his own soup and sandwich and flee into his room. The sound of his bedroom door clicking shut is one of the best sounds in the world.

* * *

They all eat dinner separately that night. Tim waits for the home office’s door to open and close again before he risks going downstairs. There’s a small tub of chili in the fridge that he didn’t notice earlier. A strip of tape on the container is labeled “ _chili, made on 12/24_ ” in Alfred’s neat script. Did everyone try to sneak things into his house? It certainly seems like it.

Tim scoops some of the chili out into a bowl and heats it up in the microwave. He’s careful to take it out before the microwave’s timer reaches zero lest it release an incriminating _beep beep beep_. As soon as he has his now-hot bowl of chili, Tim grabs a spoon and hastily retreats to his room.

He eats dinner at his desk as he watches YouTube videos on his laptop and Tim has to admit that it’s kind of nice to have Alfred’s cooking when he’s home.

As much as he’d like to go into Gotham that night, it’s probably a better idea if Tim hunkers down and weathers the proverbial storm. He sends a quick text to Bruce to let him know of his plans.

Tim [12/26, 8:03 PM]: I’m going to stay in tonight.

Bruce [12/26, 8:05 PM]: Okay, sounds good. How’s everything going over there?

Tim [12/26, 8:10 PM]: It’s pretty good. It’s nice to have my parents home again.

Tim [12/26, 8:11 PM]: Let me know how everything goes tonight?

Bruce [12/26, 8:12 PM]: I will.

Bruce [12/26, 8:13 PM]: Remember, you can text or call any of us if you need anything. We’re here for you, Tim.

Tim sets his phone down with a sigh. Why doesn’t anyone seem to understand that he’s _fine_? It’s not that bad, honestly. He can manage everything just fine by himself, thank you very much.

* * *

The next day, Tim does his best to be extra helpful. He wakes up early to make breakfast for everyone and is careful to clean up after himself so his parents don’t have to deal with more of his messes. For lunch, he reheats some of the chili and serves it to his parents, who are sitting several seats apart at the long dining table.

Between meals, he retreats to his room. After all, it’s safer to lay low when he’s not making himself useful. He mostly works on his Jeffrey Anderson articles and checks out the various Batman forums for anything interesting. A few doors slam during the day, but there isn’t any yelling. That doesn’t necessarily mean that his parents aren’t mad, so Tim keeps himself carefully tucked out of the way.

Dinner is largely full of tense, stilted silence punctuated only by the clink of utensils and Tim’s parents asking for someone to pass one of the takeout containers. They had ordered Italian food-- his parents’ favorite. Tim eats in silence and occasionally grabs more food when one of the containers is within reach. At times like these, it’s best to not disturb his parents by asking for something.

“Did you review the statement from PR?” His father asks, picking at his baked ziti.

Without glancing up from her food, his mother replies, “No, because I need marketing to send me their report first.”

“Why don’t you already have access to it?”

Now she looks up, pursing her lips. “I don’t know. Why don’t you look into it? After all, it’s your company,” she quips harshly.

“I don’t see why you have to be so difficult,” he mutters under his breath, taking a sip of water.

“I don’t see why _you_ don’t actually run your company,” she fires back.

Deciding that he’s had enough, Tim gathers his dishes before standing up. It’s best if he makes a hasty retreat before their fighting gets even more nasty.

“Could you get rid of this and refill my water while you’re up?” His father asks, handing him an empty takeout container and his water glass before he can reply.

“Yeah, okay,” Tim nods as he adds them to his stack of dishes. Perhaps it’s a little bit precariously balanced, but it’ll be fine. He’ll be careful.

Dishes in hand, he makes his way into the kitchen. He sets the stack down next to the sink and turns on the faucet to rinse the food off of his dish. Leaning forward, Tim sticks his hand under the faucet to check how hot the water is. In the process, his elbow collides with something. Tim turns his head to see what it is, only to find his dad’s water glass sailing over the edge of the counter.

Time slows down as he extends his hands to try to catch it, but his fingertips can barely brush it.

_Shit,_ he thinks dimly, and then there’s an earth-shattering _crash_ as the glass hits the floor. Tiny shards of glass scatter all over the formerly pristine tile.

All he can do is stare uselessly at the mess. Oh no, he’s going to be in so much trouble. His parents are going to be so _mad_. Lava seeps into his chest and floods his lungs with fire. He’s rooted in place and he can’t breathe, he can’t--

“What was that?” his father demands, rising from his seat and stalking across the kitchen.

Tim is burning, his eyes glued to the glinting mess on the floor. “I--”

Pain radiates through Tim’s face as Jack slaps him. Time stands still as Jack stares Tim down, face red with rage. “Would it kill you to be careful and think things through for once in your life?” he snaps.

“I’m sorry,” Tim mumbles, unable to bring himself to look his father in the eye.

Another slap. His mouth tastes like pennies as his head snaps to the side. “Sorry doesn’t fix anything,” Jack hisses. One heavy hand lands on Tim’s arm and squeezes tight, jostling him. He’s burning, he’s on fire, he can’t move. All he can do is stare at the shards of glass coating the ground like snow.

There are footsteps and then his mother is standing in front of him. “Move, Jack,” she orders, brushing his aside before placing her own hand on Tim’s shoulder.

“Timothy Jackson Drake,” she says with a voice that’s soft and deadly and sharp as a knife, “You’re not a damn child. Clean up your mess.”

Tim just barely manages to lift his gaze to look at his mother. “But-- how should I--?”

The hand on his shoulder tightens. “Figure. It. Out,” she hisses. “I would’ve expected that you’d know how to clean up your own messes by now. Or do you want us to do everything for you?”

“No, no, I’ll do it,” Tim hears himself say. With numb but surprisingly steady hands, he watches himself grab a dustpan and paper towels from under the sink.

“Get to it,” his father snaps.

“Yes, Dad,” Tim replies numbly from somewhere very far away, and speeds up.

He starts using damp paper towels to wipe up the broken glass and push it into the dustpan. Once his parents are satisfied that he’s not about to botch the cleanup process too, they walk back to the table. Their footsteps echo over the floor and reverberate through Tim’s chest.

He blinks, and the floor is clean. Tim disposes of the broken glass in the trash and stands back up so he can finish washing his dishes. Then, with glassy eyes, he turns and mechanically walks up the stairs.

Tim sits down on his bed-- with perfect posture, of course, he’s not a monster-- and stares at the wall. There are thoughts in his head, he’s sure, but right now they feel very, very far away.

Before winter break, the eleventh graders were doing an egg drop experiment. They went up to the roof of Gotham Academy and, one by one, dropped their carefully wrapped eggs onto the pavement below. Tim feels a little bit like those eggs: muffled, as if his head was full of cotton balls and bubble wrap, and like pieces of him were chipped away so that the gunk within him could seep out.

What’s wrong with him? All he does is create mess after mess. Why can’t he just be _good_?

Time becomes nebulous as he lays down on his bed and switches to staring at the ceiling. His phone buzzes with texts from the Waynes: pictures of Ace, Jason complaining about Dick’s taste in movies, and a check-in from Bruce. Tim ignores them. How can he reply, when everything has seeped out of his head, leaving him empty?

When he brushes his teeth that night, he spits out blood with his toothpaste. Oh. He must have bitten his tongue earlier; it feels a little sore now, but there’s nothing to really be done about it.

As he curls up in bed, Tim thinks of the little stuffed brown dog nestled safely in his closet. He doesn’t know why he wants to grab it, but-- he’s thirteen, he’s not a child. Instead, he drapes his weighted blanket over his head instead. The pressure still feels kind of distant, but it’s better than nothing.

* * *

In the morning, Tim feels a bit more like a real person. He goes through the motions of his morning routine, gets dressed in proper clothes (his mother would gawk if she saw what Dick Grayson wore on the weekends), and checks to see if the coast is clear before he darts downstairs.

(He does not stare at his bruised face in the mirror. It doesn’t really feel like him, anyways. Does the bruise on his face really look like that? He hopes not.)

Tim returns with a box of cheerios, a few granola bars, and an ice pack wrapped in a tea towel. Considering the mess he made last night, it’s probably for the best if he hides out in his room for a while. Plus, he should ice his face to keep it from swelling.

For most of the morning and early afternoon, he sits at his desk and eats some of the cheerios as he watches YouTube videos. He keeps an emergency window with the Pythagorean theorem open on his computer that he can switch to if his parents barge into his room, but they leave him alone. Out of sight, out of mind.

Tim keeps an ear out for any arguing or slamming doors, but there’s nothing. The amount of silence is unnerving. Are his parents still angry about last night, or did they find something else to get upset about? Are they mad at each other? He doesn’t have enough data to tell, so he decides to keep being cautious.

Dinner that night is quiet, but at least his parents don’t end up fighting at the dinner table. His mother makes a few snide comments about how Tim should use a plastic cup instead of a glass one, but she doesn’t _actually_ force him to drink from a plastic cup like a baby, so it’s okay. Tim pokes at his food and asks to be excused as quickly as he can politely do so.

He carefully, so carefully, washes his dishes before retreating back into his room once more.

Jason [12/27, 7:28 PM]: we’re going out tonight. lmk if you want to come with!

Jason [12/27, 7:29 PM]: no pressure though.

Jason [12/27, 7:29 PM]: how are things over there?

Tim [12/27, 7:40 PM]: Things are pretty good today. It’s quiet, at least.

It’s not an outright lie. The day _has_ been quiet, but it’s also been unnerving and tense as hell. But he doesn’t want Jason to worry or jump to conclusions, so lying is better. Safer.

Tim [12/27, 7:41 PM]: I don’t think that I’ll join you tonight. Maybe tomorrow?

Jason [12/27, 7:42 PM]: cool cool!

Jason [12/27, 7:43 PM]: just let us know. i think B misses hearing you on the comms. it’s been too quiet over here. :)

Tim [12/27, 7:47 PM]: Quiet? With you and Dick around?

Jason [12/27, 7:48 PM]: lol that’s what B said too.

Jason [12/27, 7:49 PM]: oh brb alfred is calling me for food. see you later!!

Tim spends the rest of the night working on his Jeffrey Anderson articles. He’s just not feeling like Gotham’s Shadow tonight. Maybe tomorrow will be better after all.

* * *

The next day is as unnervingly quiet as yesterday, but Tim doesn’t fall for it. Something is definitely brewing. He just doesn’t know what it is yet.

Tim [12/28, 1:34 PM]: I think I’ll go out with you guys tonight.

Jason [12/28, 1:46 PM]: awesome!! i’ll let B know. :D

Jason [12/28, 1:47 PM]: think your parents will let you come hang out with us this afternoon?

Leaving the house for too long feels like a bad idea. It’ll be safer if he minimizes his absences.

Tim [12/28, 1:50 PM]: I don’t think so, sorry.

Jason [12/28, 1:52 PM]: it’s all good, dude! let us know when you’re about to come over?

Tim [12/28, 1:57 PM]: I will. :-)

* * *

Tim [12/28, 7:02 PM]: I’ll be over a little after 8.

Jason [12/28, 7:04 PM]: cool, see you soon! [thumbs up emoji]

* * *

At eight o’clock that night, Tim checks his makeup in the mirror one last time and verifies that his face looks free of bruises before he gets ready to go. He dons his all-black Gotham’s Shadow outfit, grabs his night backpack, and climbs out his window. He’s careful to leave it unlocked so he’ll have an easier time getting in when he returns. Tim shimmies down the gutter before landing quietly in the grass.

By this point, the walk over to Wayne Manor is relatively automatic. Tim slips in through the back door, which was left unlocked just for him, and heads over to the study. He has to rise onto his tiptoes to turn the grandfather clock’s hands to this week’s passcode before the section of the wall swings open.

“B?” Tim calls as he descends the stairs, the stairwell’s lights flickering on as the motion sensors detect his presence. (Dick apparently wanted to get bat-shaped nightlight covers for the lights in the stairwell, but Bruce overruled him.)

Jason pops up at the bottom of the stairs, beaming. He’s already dressed in his Robin uniform but isn’t wearing his mask yet. “Hey, Timberly!”

Smiling, Tim speeds up until he reaches the bottom of the stairs. When Jason extends one hand for a fist bump, Tim happily returns it. “Sorry I’m late. Are you about to go out?”

“Almost. Dickiebird is still getting dressed,” Jason replies. “But c’mon, we have something to show you.” He links his arm with Tim’s and gently tugs him over to where Bruce is sitting in front of the Batcomputer.

Bruce, already wearing the Batsuit but with his cowl hanging loosely around his neck, turns the chair around and smiles as they approach. “Hi, Tim. How are you?”

Tim returns his smile. “Pretty good. How are you?”

Just then, Dick bursts out of the changing room in his full Nightwing suit minus his domino mask. “Don’t give it to him without me!” he calls, racing over.

Bruce hardly blinks as Dick skids to a halt next to them.

“Give me what?” Tim asks, frowning.

“This,” Bruce replies as he produces a mass of black fabric from where it was previously hidden in the folds of his cape. As he holds it up for Tim to see, the garment unfolds into what looks like a black bodysuit. From the way that the fabric falls, parts of it must be weighted down with-- something. “It has some light armor built in, similar to the Robin uniform. There’s also a GPS chip built in so we can track you down if someone grabs you. The suit is designed to be worn under your clothes for a bit of added protection. Oh, and we took the liberty of getting you some sturdier clothes to wear out. There’s less of a chance of anything ripping or snagging.”

“Oh,” Tim says, eyes wide as Bruce gently deposits the mass of black fabric in his arms. It’s surprisingly soft.

“Everything else is in the changing rooms. Why don’t you go try it on?” Bruce suggests kindly.

Dazed, Tim nods and heads over to the changing rooms with the suit cradled in his arms. True to Bruce’s word, there’s a small stack of neatly folded black clothing waiting for him on one of the benches. A sticky note labels the stack “ _Tim”_ in Bruce’s neat handwriting.

He reemerges a few minutes later in slim black cargo pants, a close-fitting black jacket that zips up the front, and new boots. They’re surprisingly light but still feel sturdy enough to run in.

As he approaches the Batcomputer, Dick claps and Jason gives him a thumbs up. While he was changing, they both put on their domino masks.

Bruce casts a critical eye over his outfit before nodding approvingly. “It looks like everything fits well. How does it feel?”

“Good,” Tim replies. “It’s all perfect, actually. But how did you get my measurements?”

“Alfred,” they all say in unison.

Oh, that makes sense.

Bruce passes Tim a domino mask. “Do you need help putting it on?”

“I’ve got it,” Tim replies and attaches the mask before anyone can try to do it for him. At this point, he’s reasonably confident in his makeup skills, but there’s no reason to let the Bats close enough to get a good look at his face.

Dick ruffles his hair and Tim barely keeps himself from flinching. The smile on Dick’s face still holds steady, but Tim can’t help but feel like he did something wrong. He’s already made enough messes at home and he’d hate to mess up with the Waynes too.

“Form up,” Batman orders as his voice deepens into a rumble that Tim suspects is mostly instinct at this point. Nightwing and Robin straighten up and fall silent, leaving Tim to awkwardly scramble so he’s standing in line next to them. “Here are your assignments for the night--”

Twenty minutes later, the Batmobile drops Tim and Nightwing off in an alley in Gotham Proper.

“Ready for some good, old-fashioned stakeout fun?” Nightwing asks as they scale a fire escape.

“I hope so,” Tim replies. He’s done plenty of stakeouts in the past, but there’s something different about doing one while working with the Bats.

“Aw, it’ll be fine.” With a graceful jump, Nightwing clears the last few steps and hops onto the roof. “We’re not expecting much action here tonight anyways. But you know, there’s a really good ice cream place down the street. We might be able to convince Robin and Batman to grab us some ice cream while we wait.”

Tim perks up before remembering that they have a job to do. “But-- don’t they have to work?”

Nightwing takes a seat on the edge of the roof. “Well, yeah, but they’ll probably get bored. Patrol is basically just lots of boredom with a few fights thrown in for flavor.”

“Huh.” Sitting down next to Nightwing, Tim pulls out his camera and peers through the viewfinder at the ordinary-looking office building across the street. “So now we just wait for Mr. Freeze’s suppliers?”

“Yep, basically.” Nightwing flops down on his stomach. “It’ll be fun! It builds character.”

“Hm,” Tim says, and settles in to wait.

* * *

Two hours later, they have multiple clear photos of Mr. Freeze’s former supplies meeting in one of the office building’s conference rooms. Tim is very pleased with the pictures he took, including a few candids of Nightwing. Best of all, after the meeting finishes and everyone clears out, Batman and Robin join them on the rooftop with frozen yogurt.

Robin hands Tim a cup of cake batter flavored frozen yogurt with gummy bears, M&Ms, peanut butter chips, and chocolate sauce. The side of the cup is labeled _Shadow_ in sharpie. “I literally do not understand your taste in ice cream, but here you go.” He sits down next to Tim, legs dangling over the edge of the roof.

Nightwing leans over, peering at Robin’s ice cream. “Oh, what did you get, R?”

“Cheesecake froyo plus some fresh strawberries, brownie bites, and chocolate syrup,” Robin replies primly.

“How respectable,” says Nightwing as he takes a bite of his own monstrosity. Tim can’t tell what’s in it other than blue frozen yogurt and enough rainbow sprinkles and other assorted rainbow goodies that the color bleeds into the whipped cream.

“You should’ve seen the look on the employees’ faces when Batman got dark chocolate everything,” Robin says. “It was hilarious.”

“He has an aesthetic to maintain.” Nightwing drops his voice into a reasonable approximation of Batman’s growl. “ _Hi, I’m Batman and I love bat-froyo.”_

It’s hard to tell with the cowl and everything, but Tim is pretty sure that Batman rolls his eyes. “Give me your trash when you’re done eating,” he says before taking a bite of his frozen yogurt.

Together, they finish off their frozen yogurts as their legs dangle over the edge of the roof. At one point, Jason almost drops his by accident and just barely manages to catch it. Luckily, he doesn’t accidentally rain toppings down onto the street below. After they finish, they all place their empty containers and spoons in the black trash bag that Batman produces from a compartment in his belt.

“So we don’t leave our DNA sitting around,” Robin explains to Tim as they drop their trash into the bag.

“Oh, that makes sense.”

“I parked the Batmobile next to the fire escape,” Batman says after they’ve all finished eating. “Are you all ready to go?”

“Yep!” Nightwing chirps. “But why would we take the fire escape down when we could do things the fun way?”

“What’s the fun way?” Tim asks.

Eyes glittering, Nightwing turns so his back is to Tim and he drops to one knee. “Climb on and hold on tight. We’re gonna grapple down.”

It’s not proper, but.… They’re breathing in cold, crisp air while standing on a rooftop in Gotham, the whole city glittering before them like stars. These are the _Bats_. Nothing they do is proper, but they do it to help the city, so it’s okay. Besides, Nightwing already offered and it would be rude to refuse, right?

Tim adjusts the straps of his backpack before he clumsily climbs onto Nightwing’s back. Nightwing rises easily and shifts his weight before producing a grappling gun from his belt. “Ready?” He asks.

“Yeah,” Tim says, clinging to Nightwing’s back.

His heart pounds in excitement as Nightwing runs towards the edge of the rooftop, and then he jumps and they’re in freefall. He can barely keep himself from screaming as they fall, wind rushing past them. Then there’s the unmistakable hiss of a grappling gun being fired and they’re swinging forward. Their landing is surprisingly smooth-- Nightwing must have a lot of experience with landing without jostling whoever he’s carrying.

Hands shaking slightly, Tim slides off of Nightwing’s back and lands on the old, cracked pavement. “Whoah,” he breathes.

Two more grapple guns hiss and a second later, Robin and Batman land next to Tim in the alley.

“So, what did you think?” Robin asks, grinning as he nudges Tim’s shoulder.

Tim swallows before looking up at Robin. “That was cool,” he whispers.

“Yeah?” Nightwing grins and pats Tim’s shoulder. “I thought you’d like it. Hey, we should incorporate grapples into your training. What do you think, B?” He looks over at Batman, who is busy pulling the tarp hiding the Batmobile.

“Hmm,” says Batman. “I’ll think about it.”

Nightwing does a fist bump as Robin leans over to stage whisper, “That means yes.”

Batman opens the door to the backseat and Jason and Tim obediently climb in while Dick claims the passenger seat.

“That was some good work out there, GS,” Nightwing says as they all get buckled in. “You have a good eye for stakeouts.”

Tim flushes and stares down at his hands, which are neatly folded in his lap. “Not really,” he demurs. “I just took pictures, is all.”

“Yeah, but you managed to get a bunch of good shots of their faces _and_ identifying markers on their clothes,” Nightwing shoots back easily.

“I have a lot of practice, I guess.”

Robin lightly pokes Tim’s arm, making him squeak. “Accept the compliment, bro. I’ve seen your pictures before, you’re a really freaking good photographer.”

“It sounds like you did a good job, Shadow.” Even with the white-out lenses blocking out Batman’s eyes, Tim can feel the weight of his gaze. “I’m proud of you.”

The tips of his ears are burning. “Thank you,” he mumbles without meeting their eyes.

Thankfully, they ease off on the compliments for the rest of the drive back to the Cave. Tim changes back into his normal clothes, scratches Ace’s head, and waves goodbye to the assembled Bats.

Bruce hasn’t changed out of the Batsuit yet and has a terrible case of post-patrol cowl hair, but he still smiles and pats Tim’s shoulder. “Good night, Tim. Let us know if you need anything.”

“I will,” Tim promises.

“Seeya, Timbo!” Jason shouts from the foam pit before Dick jumps in after him, eliciting a squawk of protest as he lovingly squashes Jason.

“I’ll walk you out,” Alfred offers, smiling at him.

“You don’t have to,” Tim says automatically.

Raising one eyebrow, Alfred gestures for Tim to start walking up the stairs. “And yet, you’ll find that I want to. I shall not be dissuaded, Master Tim.”

“If you really want to, I guess you can do it.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

They reach the front door and Alfred kisses Tim’s forehead before opening. “Do take care of yourself and don’t hesitate to call or text us if you need anything.”

Tim stifles a smile and glances down at the ground before meeting Alfred’s eyes. “Good night, Alfred. Thanks.”

“Good night, Master Timothy. You know where to find us.”

With that, Tim steps out into the night. It’s not too late, maybe around eleven o’clock. The air is chilly, but the cold has never really bothered Tim. Besides, his black sweatshirt and wool socks keep him warm enough.

Tim strides across Wayne Manor’s grounds and relishes the slight bite in the air. The stars are out tonight and each lungful of air hurts just enough that it all feels real. If he plays his cards right, maybe he can sneak out again on New Year’s Eve. He doubts that Bruce will let him come out on patrol during New Year’s Eve, but he could probably be convinced to let Tim help Alfred run the comms. It’s supposed to snow in a few days, which will surely cause general chaos, and New Year’s Eve in Gotham is always full of nasty surprises.

(Nobody will forget the year that the Joker replaced all of the fireworks in the city with actual explosives that absolutely reeked of sulfur. That was certainly an interesting night.)

He crosses the boundary between Wayne Manor and Drake Manor before continuing on until he reaches the house. Getting out was the easy part, but climbing back through his window will be significantly more difficult. Tim scales an old, sturdy tree growing next to the side of the house and shimmies along the branch until he’s close enough to his window.

Tensing, Tim readies himself before jumping and grabbing the edge of the window ledge. He uses his momentum to throw himself forward so he’s fully perched on the windowsill before he opens the unlocked window. Tim tosses his backpack inside first before climbing inside.

His feet barely hit the ground before the overhead light turns on, revealing his parents. His positively fuming, absolutely _furious_ parents.

“Timothy Jackson Drake,” his mother snarls, rising from her seat on his bed, “What on earth were you doing up this late? And climbing in through the window, of all things. Imagine if one of the neighbors saw you!”

Tim resists the urge to roll his eyes; the Waynes certainly have seen more usual things than Tim shimmying up a gutter. A gust of cool air blows in through the still-open window and a strange burst of boldness fuels him as he replies, “I was out. And they didn’t see.”

“Don’t take that tone with us, young man,” his father says lowly, stepping forward from where he stood next to the light switch. “Do you realize how reckless you’ve been lately? First the field trip and now this? Are you putting yourself in danger on _purpose_ , or are you just being thoughtless?”

Tim clenches his jaw and maintains eye contact with his father. His chest feels like it’s burning as rage spills out of his chest and into his head, his hands. “The field trip wasn’t my fault!” he cries, making a sweeping gesture with one hand. “My friend was gonna be _hurt_! I had to do something.”

“Something like putting yourself in danger _again_?” his mother asks coolly. “You made the choice to increase your own ransom, Tim. You handed yourself over to _Two-Face_! Do you care at all about what watching you throw yourself into danger does to us? We are trying to help keep you _safe_ , but you keep undermining us every step of the way. ”

His father takes another menacing step forward, but Tim doesn’t step back. “Do you have any idea how _sick_ and _tired_ we are of running after you as you wander into mess after mess?” He walks towards Tim, face contorted with anger. “We’re trying to _help_ you, son, and all you do is spit in our faces when all we want is to keep you alive!”

“I had to do it or Jason would be hurt, it wasn’t my _fault_ \--” Tim retorts, hands clenched into fists, when he’s interrupted mid sentence by his father’s slap. His head snaps to the side from the force of it.

Face burning, Tim has a split second to stare at the wall and think _oh no_ and then _is this really happening_ before his father shoves him, hard. He stumbles back and catches himself against the wall as the windowsill digs into his back.

Jack advances until Tim is pressed back against the windowsill. The chill from outside seeps into his back through the open window, turning his blood to ice. “We are your _parents_ and you will _respect us_ ,” he all but screams.

It takes a moment for Tim’s jaw to start working again. “I’m sorry,” he manages to get out, “I’m really sorry, I was being stupid, I shouldn’t have--”

“I’m sorry, did we ask to be interrupted?” Janet interjects, arms crossed. “We weren’t finished talking.” Tim snaps his mouth shut and resists the urge to apologize again.

She walks closer, hand trailing over his desk. “Do you enjoy trying to squander all of the effort that we put into you and your life? We sent you to the most prestigious school in the area, and what do you do? Put yourself in danger time and time again by practically throwing yourself at Two-Face, of all people, and sneaking in through your window like some common _teenager_ ,” she sneers. “You could have been shot! This is a twenty foot drop outside your window! You could have been seriously hurt.”

Instead of meeting her eyes, he stares at the wall just past her head as she continues, “Do you know what you are, Timothy Jackson _Drake_?”

Tim pauses, glancing between his parents as he tries to figure out the best course of action. After a beat of silence, he replies, “Uh-- a Drake? The future CEO of Drake Industries.”

Janet smiles, sharp as a knife. “That’s true. But do you know what else you’ll be if you keep this up? _Dead_. You cannot keep running into dangerous situations like this, Timothy. It isn’t _safe_.”

“We’re just trying to help you,” his father says, squeezing his shoulder a bit too hard, “But it’s hard to do that when you sabotage us every step of the way. All we want is for you to be healthy and alive, son.”

“I’m so sorry,” Tim whispers desperately. “I’ll never do it again, I swear. You deserve better than me-- than me doing this to you. Sorry.”

“If you’re sorry,” his father hisses as he leans closer, face morphing into something thunderous, “Then why do you _keep doing it?_ ”

Jack hits him across the face again, hard. Tim’s head cracks against the window, sending chills throughout his body. Dimly, he hopes that the Waynes aren’t watching. He’d hate for them to see this.

“I think we need to teach you how to be mindful of your safety. You need some time to think over your actions,” his mother says, watching him calmly even as her eyes burn with anger. “Evidently, there’s only one guaranteed way to keep you from getting yourself hurt. Timothy Jackson Drake, you are _grounded_.”

Something in Tim’s chest breaks, then, like shards of glass skittering across the floor. All of his limbs become too heavy to move as if he was weighed down with stones. His mother produces something from her pocket-- a lock, his brain supplies after a brief lag-- and steps forward to attach it to his window.

“Let’s get the rest of the room,” she tells Jack.

He nods and starts the process of removing the television from his wall. Janet turns to Tim and holds out her hand. “Give me your phone,” she orders.

Tim hands over his phone. His face burns, but the feeling is kind of far away, as if it were happening to someone else’s body.

He’s left to watch as his parents methodically tear apart his room and remove anything that looks like it could be used for fun. They take his laptop, video games, books, and just about anything that’s not a textbook or schoolwork.

Even though they throw open his dresser drawers in their search for electronics and other fun items, they don’t take his clothes. Luckily, they also don’t bother digging through the pile of blankets in his closet, so his food stash remains undiscovered. Good-- he might need it.

Finally, _finally_ , his parents drag the television out of his room and leave him in peace. Tim briefly closes his eyes as he hears them click the door’s lock into place before their footsteps head in two different directions down the hallway as they go to their separate rooms.

He takes a moment to just breathe. It’s... everything is a lot. Tim’s chest feels like the inside of his room: hollow, like someone reached inside and scooped out all of the life in it.

Eventually, the chill seeping through the window panes becomes unbearable. Tim takes a shaky step forward, then another, then another. He grabs pajamas from one of the dresser drawers strewn about the ground and tosses his dirty clothes into a pile in the corner. Those can be dealt with later. His watch gets to stay in its usual place of honor atop his now-eerily empty desk.

Tim rubs at his eyes before remembering that he’s wearing makeup. Right. Well, it’s a good thing that he’s not wearing eye makeup or else he’d look like a raccoon. Somehow, his parents didn’t take his makeup wipes. It’s probably good that they didn’t yell at him about wearing makeup; if anyone else yells at him tonight, Tim is pretty sure that he would break.

He removes his makeup mechanically without looking in a mirror. Moving is hard and everything feels so heavy. He’s just so _tired_.

Tim stumbles into bed in his torn-apart room without brushing his teeth. Body heavy like an anchor, he falls asleep in the space between one breath and the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, [S](https://chocolateandsilver.tumblr.com/), and [goldkirk](https://goldkirk.tumblr.com/), for their help and support!!!
> 
> This chapter was kind of heavy, but I hope that you enjoyed it!! My apologies for the slight cliffhanger haha. I'll try to have chapter 18 up within 48 hours. <3
> 
> Also, in case you didn't know, I've been posting [out of context spoilers for _birds fly_ on my tumblr (batfam-chaos)](https://batfam-chaos.tumblr.com/tagged/birds-fly-out-of-context-spoilers). Come check them out! Chapter 18's out of context spoilers will likely be up at some point today.


	18. i could pray but it won't stop you leaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim does his best in a bad situation. And then New Year's Eve arrives, and things change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Funeral Bell by Phildel. Check out my author's note at the end of the fic for some fun analysis of how the chapter title fits this chapter! I have lots of Feelings about it.
> 
> This chapter is also pretty heavy and there are a _lot_ of emotions in it. Please take care of yourselves and step away or take a break if you need to do so!! <3 
> 
> **CWs:** food insecurity, discussions of physical/emotional abuse, discussions of domestic violence, panic attacks/hyperventilation, and dissociation. In general, this chapter's content warnings are a continuation of those from chapter 17.

Tim wakes up to cool winter sunlight streaming in through the open curtains. Sitting up, he rubs his eyes and blinks at the carcass of his room. In the daylight, the drawers pulled out of his dresser and the folders scattered across the floor look oddly peaceful. A brightly colored box of cheerios sitting just inside his door catches his eye. His parents must have left it for him when he was still asleep. Well, at least he won’t need to immediately break into his food stash.

Swinging his feet out of bed, Tim grabs a fresh set of clothes from one of the scattered dresser drawers and sets about his morning routine. It feels nice to brush his teeth again.

Dressed in a respectable sweater and nice jeans, Tim plants his hands on his hips and surveys the carnage of his room. Maybe it's the sunlight or maybe it’s seeing the absolute mess in front of him, but Tim is practically buzzing with energy. His hands twitch with the need to do-- something. Clean up this mess, perhaps.

Besides, if his parents see how well he can clean his room, they might let him back out again. Tim would hate to be grounded for too long. It may be winter break, but he has pictures to take and articles to write, after all.

He channels his weird burst of energy into cleaning and reorganizing everything. Tim puts the drawers back into his dresser and picks up the contents of his school backpack from where they were lying scattered across the floor. His clothes are carefully folded and put away.

At one point, he takes a break to sit on the floor and eat some cheerios. If he had his phone, he could scroll through as he eats, but instead he’s stuck staring at the wall. The cheerios are dry and kind of flavorless, but at least his parents thought of him. He fills his water bottle at the bathroom sink and sips on it as he stares at the wreckage of his room. Tap water isn’t the best, but hey, at least he has an ensuite bathroom so he still has access to water.

Tim starts cleaning his desk next. He frowns at the papers and pencils scattered everywhere and silently thanks his tendency to keep all of his Gotham’s Shadow and Jeffrey Anderson stuff under (digital) lock and key on his computer. As he works on returning everything to its proper place, Tim picks up a dry erase marker and stares at it for a moment.

Oh, that’s a good idea.

Two minutes later, he tapes a piece of paper to his window with the words “ _I’M FINE_ ” written as large as Tim could get it without running out of space. There, now the Waynes won’t worry about him.

Pleased, Tim returns to cleaning. Eventually, though, his wave of energy ends and Tim crashes. He ends up curling up on his beneath his weighted blanket and napping. When he wakes up again, it’s dark outside.

It takes a while for Tim to drag himself out of bed and over to his desk to check the time. His watch-- the only piece of technology in the room, now that he thinks about it-- tells him that it’s just past seven o’clock. When did he fall asleep? How long was he asleep for? It must have been the early afternoon when he fell asleep, and yet he’s still tired despite his extended nap.

Somewhat disoriented, Tim takes his watch and trudges back to his bed. He curls up under his weighted blanket again and half-heartedly munches on a few handfuls of cheerios. His room is partially organized, but there are still books all over the floor.

Tim should do something about that, but his body feels too heavy to move. He resigns himself to an evening of laying down on his bed. Maybe he’ll come up with concepts for some new Jeffrey Anderson articles. (Most likely not, but he can pretend like he’ll be productive.)

The rest of the night passes in a foggy blur. At some point, Tim stumbles out of bed to change into his pajamas and brush his teeth. Washing his face, however, is-- it’s _hard_ , okay, don’t judge him. He has a packet of face wipes for days like this so he doesn’t turn into a grimy-faced monster.

Finally, Tim trudges back to bed. He checks his watch-- it’s ten fifteen at night. Far earlier than when he usually goes to bed, but hey, it’s not like there’s anyone here to judge him. It’s just him, the wreckage of his room, and the moonlight shining through the gap in his curtains.

* * *

When Tim wakes up, he feels like a truck ran him over. He doesn’t bother getting dressed and instead shuffles over to the bathroom to do the rest of his morning routine. After he finishes, he’s too tired to do much else, so he flops back down on his bed.

It doesn’t take long for him to polish off the box of cereal. Hmm, it looks like he’ll have to start digging into his food stash today.

Dragging a blanket behind him, Tim wanders over to his bookshelves and plops down in the corner. He grabs a nearby book at random and flips through it half-heartedly. An algebra textbook-- of course.

With a sigh, Tim sets the book down and picks up another book. A chemistry book. Did his parents assume that all of his books for English class were for fun and then take them too? He stands up and shuffles around his room, gathering books in his arms. The books get added to a slowly growing heap in front of the bookshelves. They should be reshelved, at the very least. He could even reorganize his shelving system. Yes, that sounds like a good project.

He manages to fill half of a single shelf before he hears his parents’ voices from downstairs. Tim pauses and sets down the book in his hands as he listens. If he can hear them from his room, then they must be speaking very loudly.

Eventually, their voices die down. Tim is shivering-- his window is a bit drafty. Perhaps he should change clothes. If his parents decide to come upstairs to let him out, they might get mad if they see him still in his pajamas. He roots through his dresser until he comes across what looks like Bruce’s old sweatshirt. How did that get there? Bruce must have lent it to him at some point and Tim must have forgotten to give it back.

...Maybe if he wears it, he’ll remember to give it back to Bruce. It’s a stupid excuse, but--

He hunts through the rest of his clothes until he finds what he’s looking for. Maybe his parents will think that it’s stupid. Tim feels a little stupid, but he also feels very cozy. He’s wearing Bruce’s sweatshirt, one of Jason’s old shirts that somehow ended up with his things, a pair of Dick’s old sweatpants, and a pair of extraordinarily soft socks that Alfred knitted for him.

It feels like being wrapped in a hug and Tim isn’t some kid who needs comforting, but it’s honestly kind of nice. If-- when his parents see him, he’ll just wrap himself in a blanket so they don’t yell at him for wearing “slobby” clothes.

Well, at least he’s warm.

The yelling starts up again and Tim nearly jumps before scrambling to the door. Even with his ear pressed to the door, he can’t quite discern what they’re saying. There’s a particularly loud shout and then the sound of someone stomping up the stairs.

Oh no. They must be mad. Are they coming to lecture him again? Tim stands up with perfect posture, clutching the blanket around his shoulders. The footsteps reach the top of the stairs and head down the hallway. They’re definitely going to lecture him again, but maybe, maybe, they’ll let him back out after they do.

Tim is getting awfully sick of eating cheerios.

So he waits, and the breath freezes in his lungs as the footsteps draw closer. They reach his door and Tim tenses, but they don’t even hesitate. The footsteps keep going as they pass his door and continue until a door on the far end of the hallway opens and then shuts with a slam.

Tim stands there for a minute, fingers tangled in his blanket, and just breathes as he stares at the door. Finally, he ducks his head and shuffles over to the closet. He should eat something other than cereal. If Alfred was here, he’d probably lecture Tim about getting enough vitamins and nutrients.

He pulls out the blankets covering his food stash and, after a moment of thought, sets them down in the corner of his closet. Taking a seat atop the pile of blankets, Tim starts digging through his food stash. He has some old granola bars that are probably still good, plus Jason gave him some new granola bars and those squeezable fruit pouches. Fruit has a bunch of vitamins in them, right? And the peanut butter that Jason left him has protein.

Tim rearranges the blankets and wriggles around until he’s nestled in the middle of a blanket nest. Only then does he lean back against the wall and start munching on his snacks.

The closet is delightfully dark and cozy. It’s insulated from his drafty window and his arguing parents, too. Tim tucks the now-empty wrappers into an empty box before he curls up and tugs a blanket over himself. He’s slept so much in the past day or so but somehow, he’s still tired. Maybe a nap will help.

If Bruce was here, he would tell Tim to go to sleep.

Tim pulls one of the blankets over himself so he’s bundled up in a little cocoon. In the quiet, soft darkness of the closet, it feels like nothing can touch him. Still, for some reason that he can’t quite fathom, he wants to run. Closing his eyes, Tim tries to shake the panic before he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Something is wrong.

Tim wakes up with a jolt, flinging the blanket off of himself as he rolls into a crouch. Everything is dark. Why is it so dark? Right, he’s in a closet. He creeps over to the door of the closet and pauses, listening. There’s nobody in his room, but alarm bells are still going off in his head.

What’s wrong? Tim rubs his eyes, willing away some of his grogginess, and crawls out of the closet. He sits down in front of the door to his room and forces himself to listen. Everything is quiet for a second and then-- there, in the distance.

He is intimately acquainted with the sound of his father bellowing in rage. Tim freezes out of pure instinct, one hand bracing his crouch and the other hanging in midair, interrupted halfway to the door. His mother screams something in response and he has no trouble picking out the marks of her anger: the volume, the pitch, the way that her voice dips down low before rising again.

His parents must be fighting again. Are they arguing about him? They’re angry and disappointed, Tim knows that much, but are they taking it out on each other? He should be there to stop them. Maybe if he was there, he could defuse the situation and--

Downstairs, there is the unmistakable sound of something shattering.

Tim’s heart starts pounding and he edges away from the door. Oh no. They don’t usually start breaking things unless it’s a bad fight. Slowly, so slowly, he stands up and steps back, all while keeping an eye on the door. He starts backing towards the closet, snatching his watch off the desk as he goes. Knowing the time might come in handy, so he can know if enough time has passed that it’s safe to reemerge again.

Finally, he steps back into the closet and shuts the door behind himself. Here, it’s dark and cozy and _safe._ He can barely hear the sounds of arguing and shattering-- he hopes they didn’t break the nice plates with grape vines engraved on them, those are his father’s favorite-- from his cocoon of safety.

Tim crawls into the far corner of the closet and, feeling a little silly, he retrieves Dick’s stuffed dog from where he’d safely tucked it next to his food stash. _Only children need stuffed animal_ s, his father says sternly from somewhere in his head, but Tim has already made so many mistakes. Surely one more mistake won’t make much of a difference at this point. Besides, the stuffed dog is wonderfully soft and it has cute little ears. It’ll be fine if he holds it for a little while.

Stuffed dog clutched to his chest, Tim buries himself beneath the blankets and waits. The fight continues for a while in fits and bursts of voices and broken dishware. Tim listens and waits with his heart in his throat.

Eventually, finally, the sound of fighting dies down as someone stomps upstairs and down the hallway. The footsteps sound like his mother’s. Tim holds his breath, but she marches right past his room and into her separate bedroom. The door slams a minute later. Tim exhales and checks his watch. A thirty minute long fight must be a new record. Oh, and it’s nearly seven o’clock. Normally, he’d be eating dinner right around now. Maybe he should do that?

Tim takes out one of the granola bars that Jason snuck into his bags and half-heartedly munches on it. His stomach is growling, but he somehow just doesn’t feel that hungry. After a few bites, he sets the granola bar aside and crawls out of the closet to fetch his weighted blanket. He curls back up inside the closet, draping the weighted blanket over himself.

There’s nothing to do, really, so he just lays there and lets his mind drift. He’s too tired to think of much and mostly ends up staring at the wall, but at least he’s cozy. Tim tries to avoid looking at the watch too much or else he’ll be keenly aware of how slowly time is crawling past.

Time passes. Tim lightly dozes but doesn’t fall fully asleep. Despite the staggering amount of time he’s spent sleeping since being locked in his room, his head feels kind of foggy and weird. Eventually, Tim pulls a blanket over his head so he’s comfortable ensconced in fabric and falls asleep again.

He wakes to the unmistakable sound of his father’s favorite suitcase hitting the last step at the bottom of the stairs. Tim merely blinks and rolls over, burying his face in the blankets as he reflexively pulls the stuffed dog closer to himself.

And then he remembers why he’s in the closet in the first place.

Sitting up, Tim listens carefully. Yes, that’s the sound of his father’s suitcase rolling over through the living room. Someone is playing classical music on their phone, but it fades as they walk farther away.

Tim stands up and darts out of the closet to press his ear against the door. “Dad?” he calls. “Mom?”

Nobody replies. They’re probably too far away to hear him, but Tim sets the stuffed dog down on the ground and tries knocking on his bedroom door anyways. “Hello, anyone? Are you guys leaving?”

With a creak, the front door opens and a jolt of panic shoots through Tim’s gut. “Dad?” he shouts, pounding on the door. “Mom? Anyone? Are you going somewhere?” He throws himself against the door but only succeeds in hurting his shoulder. It aches as he continues to bang on the door. “Hello?”

Tim is well-acquainted with the sound of the front door closing. It’s a rather heavy glass-and-wood door and it always slams a little when it’s closed. When the door closes now, however, Tim can barely hear it above the sound of him pounding on his bedroom door.

Maybe they’ll come back inside. He can picture his father walking up the stairs and unlocking the door with a smile. His father wouldn’t hug him-- he rarely hugs him-- but he would probably pat Tim’s shoulder and tell him that Mom picked up Thai food for dinner and ask if he’s finished his homework.

Outside, there’s the sound of a car starting. Tim hesitates just long enough to grab the stuffed dog before rushing over to the window, heart in his throat. It’s hard to breathe around the rock in his chest. Nose pressed to the window, he watches the headlights of his parents’ car flicker on. His father is loading his suitcase into the back of the car, but Tim’s view into the trunk is blocked by the rear door so he can’t tell how many other suitcases they have.

Tim tries to open the window, but the lock is no match for his noodle arms. He makes a frustrated noise and jiggles the lock, but that doesn’t do anything either. With an angry sigh, he peers out the window again-- the car hasn’t left yet, good.

“Hello?” He hesitantly knocks on the window, the glass cold under his hands. “Can you hear me?”

The car starts going down the driveway and Tim’s heart freezes. “Hello?” he tries again, knocking more forcefully now. “Mom? Dad?”

Something catches in his throat. His face feels wet. “Don’t-- don’t go, please,” he begs, but there’s nobody around to hear him. The car keeps driving and Tim finally stops banging against the window for fear of breaking the glass and making his parents even more mad. Instead, he presses his nose against the window and watches as the car shrinks, shrinks, shrinks as it drives away until it vanishes from view completely.

Tim lingers by the window for a few minutes. His hands have gone nearly numb from the cold panes of glass and at some point, he started shivering. The “I’M FINE” sign crinkles when he touches it.

Dazed, he turns away from the window and walks over to the closet. His watch is still right where he left it next to his food stash. Tim checks the time: eleven fifty-three at night.

Maybe his parents are just going on a grocery run or they have an important meeting that they forgot about with someone in a different timezone. Maybe they’ve going to the store to get something. Maybe this is all a test and they want to see what he’ll do if they pretend to leave.

Yes, they’re probably just pretending to leave. They wouldn’t _actually_ leave him, right?

He should wait by the window for them to return. Tim grabs his watch and drags his weighted blanket over to the window before grabbing his desk chair and bringing it over too. If he drapes the blanket just right, then he can curl up on the chair and watch the driveway with the stuffed dog still cradled in his arms.

All he has to do is wait.

Tim pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on them. His whole body feels kind of weird, like he was struck by lightning and it’s all buzzing and twitching while simultaneously trying to collapse into itself. At least he’s not cold anymore: his chest feels like it’s burning.

The driveway remains empty. In the distance, several of Wayne Manor’s lights shine cheerily. Is Bruce out on patrol, or did he take the night off? Did Jason and Dick join him? It’s not a school night, but then again, it’s New Years Eve--

As if on cue, fireworks explode in the distance. Tim flinches away from the noise before lifting his gaze to where he can just barely see the fireworks over Wayne Manor’s treeline. They’re loud, but they’re also kind of beautiful. With the stuffed dog pressed against his chest, he wraps his arms around his knees as he watches the explosions of red and gold and green far, far in the distance. Their light illuminates the sign on his window with a multitude of colors.

Maybe his parents left to watch the fireworks. Maybe they’ll be back after the fireworks end and their car will roll down the driveway. They’ll show Tim pictures of the fireworks (badly photographed, of course, because his parents don’t know that much about photography) and complain to him about the faux pas of the inconsiderate family sitting next to them, and everything will be _normal._ They’ll be a normal family.

When Tim rubs at his eyes, he’s surprised to find that his hands come away wet. He wipes his hands on his blanket and tries to breathe around the hole in his chest. The fireworks continue, but he isn’t really paying attention. All he has to do is wait until the fireworks are over and then his parents will come home.

The sound of the last firework echoes, ringing in the air until it finally, finally fades. Tim sits back up, staring expectantly at the end of the driveway. His parents will surely come back soon.

Seconds turn into minutes as time oozes past. Any minute now, the car will pull down the driveway. Tim waits, and waits, and waits.

Still, nobody comes. There is no car rolling up to the house, no key twisting in the lock of his door. Instead, the house is as silent and empty as if Tim was never there at all.

It’s getting harder to breathe, like someone sucked all of the oxygen out of the room. Tim checks the time on his watch and finds that nearly forty-five minutes have passed since his parents left. Should he keep waiting? Is there even anything that he can do besides sitting here?

Wait, his watch. The panic button. _Bruce_ ’ _s_ panic button.

He doesn’t want to call Bruce right now, though. Tim is fine, really. Nothing bad has really happened yet, he’s just crying in his room over nothing. Besides, it’s getting late and he’d hate to wake Bruce up. It would be especially bad if his parents come back and it turns out that Tim called him for nothing.

So he waits.

And waits.

And his chest hurts and his head feels weird, like it’s screaming at him. Tim is so tired, but his parents aren’t back yet. He needs to keep waiting, he just isn’t being patient enough, he needs--

He needs to see his parents’ car rolling down the driveway. But _it’s not there_.

Tim waits for twenty agonizing minutes after the sound of the last firework faded. By now, it’s past one in the morning and he doesn’t want to bother Bruce, but Tim-- Tim has no clue what to _do_. His head hurts and it’s all fuzzy and he’s cold and shaking and terribly, excruciatingly _alone_. Maybe Bruce will come and maybe he won’t, but maybe, maybe, he’ll find a way to help.

So Tim presses the panic button.

“Bruce,” he says clearly, feeling a little stupid for talking to himself even though the panic button has hidden microphone, “I’m very sorry to bother you, but, um. I might need some help.”

Tim takes a deep breath and tries to force his voice to remain clinical, cool, the way his mother taught him to. “My parents left at approximately eleven fifty-three last night, so about…” He checks the time. “A little over an hour ago. And um, I’m sorry for calling, maybe I should’ve waited longer. But I-- they _left_.” His voice cracks and his face feels hot, but Tim forces himself to continue. “They locked me in and I can’t leave and I don’t-- I think they forgot about me, Bruce.”

Tim is well and truly crying now as he struggles to breathe. “I thought maybe they went to go see the fireworks, but I heard Dad’s suitcase and-- I’ve been waiting, but they haven’t come back.” He wipes at his eyes and huddles underneath his weighted blanket, fingers running absently through the stuffed dog’s soft fur. “They locked me in and they left and I’m--”

He muffles a sob by shoving the back of his hand into his mouth. For a moment, Tim’s shoulders shake as he cries, and then he adds, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to bother you. You’re probably… with your family, or asleep, but I didn’t-- there’s nobody else here and they took my phone.” Tim sucks in air. Why is it so hard to breathe?

“It’s been two days and I’ve been pretty okay. I put-- there’s a sign on my window because I didn’t want you to worry, but--” he pants for air before continuing, “I think they forgot. About me. I’ve been-- they locked me in for two days and then they _left_. Why did they _leave_?”

Face wet with tears, he buries his face in his knees and cries like a child. He’s trying to be strong, he is, and his parents would be so disappointed if they saw him right now, but… Tim is so _tired._ He’s tired and alone and his parents left him, _again_.

“Why do they always leave?” he gasps. “Why do they always-- what am I doing wrong? I’m trying to be good, I swear, I’m trying. I just want to _help_.”

The most wonderful noise echoes through the house: the sound of the front door opening. Tim jolts upright and rushes over to his bedroom door with the stuffed dog still clutched in his hands, weighted blanket lying forgotten on the chair. 

“Tim?” Bruce calls from downstairs.

“Bruce?” Tim presses one hand flat against the door, voice cracking. “I’m-- I’m in here. I’m _here_.”

Footsteps hurry up the staircase and wow, Bruce must really be moving quickly if he’s being loud enough for Tim to hear him. Moments later, Bruce’s voice comes right outside Tim’s door. “Tim,” he says, voice raw with an emotion that Tim can’t quite pinpoint, “I’m here, buddy. Let me get this lock open--”

And the lock clicks and the door swings open, and Bruce is here. _Bruce is here_ , and Tim throws himself at him, wrapping his arms around Bruce’s neck and clinging like his life depends on it.

“ _Bruce_ ,” he chokes out. “You’re here. You’re _here_.”

The past couple of days have been so long and Tim is too tired to care about crying like a baby, let alone try to stop the tears from coming. Instead, he presses his face into Bruce’s chest and _sobs_.

* * *

The door opens and before Bruce can try to pick Tim up because holy shit, he was locked away for _two days_ , Tim makes the first move and rushes towards him. He quickly finds himself with an armful of crying kid and he clutches Tim tightly to his chest. Two whole days without seeing another person or being touched at all. Holy shit.

And even before then, he doubts that the Drakes were very kind to him. The nasty-looking bruising on Tim’s face is proof enough of that. Cold rage fills Bruce’s veins and he forces himself to calm down. Tim’s parents can be dealt with later. Right now, Tim needs him.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he says into Tim’s hair. There’s a bony knee pressing into his hip, but Bruce can’t bring himself to care. “I’m here. I came for you.”

Tim nearly drops something and Bruce barely manages to catch it out of pure instinct. It’s one of Dick’s stuffed animals, a stuffed dog that looks a bit like Ace. Dick must have given it to Tim. And Tim, who frequently insists that he isn’t a child, was holding the dog until Bruce picked him up. Something in Bruce’s heart breaks a little and he shifts Tim’s weight in his arms before pressing a kiss to the side of his head.

“We’re going to get you out of here,” he says in his most soothing voice as he tucks the stuffed dog into his back pocket. If a little bit of Batman’s gentle talking-to-victims voice comes out, well. It certainly can’t hurt in this situation. Besides, Tim is a clearly traumatized child who needs something steady to cling to. “Do you have anything that you want to take with you? Your phone, laptop, camera…?”

Tim heaves another sob and Bruce rubs his back for a moment until he’s able to force out, “They took it.”

“All of it?”

A small nod against his neck.

“Okay,” Bruce says calmly and files the information away for later. “Is there anything in here that you want?”

Tim wordlessly points at the blanket in the chair by the window and-- oh. He must have been watching from the window as he waited. Bruce’s heart breaks a little bit more as he retrieves the blanket, which happens to be the same weighted blanket that he gave Tim for Hanukkah.

As much as Bruce would love to wrap him up in a snug blanket burrito, he’s loath to set Tim down right now. Instead, he tosses the blanket over his other shoulder and drapes the rest of it around Tim.

“Some of us can come back for the rest of your things,” he says.

Tim nods and hiccups. “O-okay.”

Bruce kisses the side of Tim’s head again and wow, he just closes his eyes and leans into the contact instead of attempting a perfunctory protest. “Let’s bring you home, sweetheart.”

He carries Tim out of the room and down the stairs. As they walk past shattered glassware and broken plates, Tim’s fingers twist in his shirt. Bruce glances down and finds Tim blankly observing the battlefield without remarking on it. His parents must fight like this relatively frequently in order to not elicit a reaction from him and oh, isn’t that an upsetting thought?

They walk out the front door, whose lock Bruce picked, and step out into the cold. Tim is shivering in his arms, most likely from a combination of cold and distress. Bruce picks up his pace until he’s running as fast as he comfortably can with Tim still nestled in his arms.

(He’s worryingly, distressingly light. Did his parents feed him at all? Or did this start before Tim was locked in? Or--)

(Fuck. There’s no time for those thoughts now. Not when there’s a very real thirteen year old in his arms who needs to feel warm and safe and unconditionally _loved_.)

They reach the back entrance to Wayne Manor. Before Bruce can try to fumble the door open without letting go of Tim, Alfred opens it for him. Alfred, bless him, looks over the two of them-- Bruce, slightly out of breath from sprinting over from Drake Manor while carrying a whole entire child, and Tim, still crying quietly and clinging to Bruce-- and says, “I’ll fetch some blankets and prepare the den.”

Bruce nods once, too stressed to come up with an appropriate reply, and shifts Tim’s weight in his arms.

“We’re gonna take you to the den, buddy. Okay?”

Tim doesn’t verbally reply, but he does burrow further into Bruce’s neck. Taking that as an affirmative, Bruce rubs Tim’s back and carries the boy over to the den. Alfred is partway through the process of taking what must be nearly every blanket in the house and arranging them into a nest. Bruce gently sets Tim down in the center of the nest and pulls the weighted blanket tighter around his shoulders before pressing the stuffed dog into his hands.

“I don’t need it,” Tim mumbles even as he clutches the dog to his chest with one hand and holds onto the sleeve of Bruce’s bathrobe with the other. “‘m not a baby.”

“I know, bud,” Bruce replies gently as he sits down next to Tim.

For a moment, Tim stills and Bruce frowns, watching him carefully. Ah. Bruce wraps an arm around Tim’s shoulders and pulls him close enough that he’s nearly flush against Bruce’s side. Some of the tension fades from Tim’s shoulders.

There’s the clacking of claws against hardwood, and then Dick walks into the den with Ace at his side. Only years of practice clue Bruce into the strain hidden behind Dick’s easy smile. “I heard you needed a dog,” Dick says casually. There’s a tiny twitch in his eyebrow when his eyes land on the bruises on Tim’s face, but Bruce has trained Dick well. He’s a natural performer and he doesn’t crack.

“Ace, lap,” Bruce orders, pointing to Tim.

Without missing a beat, Ace hops up onto the couch and drapes himself in Tim’s lap. Bruce gently picks up one of Tim’s hands and guides it so it’s resting in Ace’s fur while his other hand still clutches the stuffed dog to his chest. Dick glances down at the stuffed dog, eyes softening.

Bruce waits until Dick looks back up at him and then raises an eyebrow to ask, _are you okay to be here?_

Dick gives a faint nod which means, _I’m good for now._

A tiny frown settles onto Bruce’s face. _Let me know when you need a break._

Dick reaches over to briefly squeeze Bruce’s shoulder before he takes a seat on Tim’s other side. He leans back into the sofa and drapes an arm around Tim’s shoulders. “Hey, Tim. It sounds like you’ve had a rough night.”

Tim looks up at Dick with wide, tear-filled eyes. “Hi,” he rasps.

“Tim,” Bruce says, voice carefully gentle, “Do you think you could answer a few questions for me, bud?” He rubs Tim’s back as he waits for an answer.

Tim lets his head droop onto Dick’s shoulder. “Okay,” he whispers, staring down at Ace instead of either of them.

“How is your body feeling right now? Are you too hot or cold?” Bruce asks. “Or tired or hungry?”

A little crease appears in Tim’s brow as he worries at his lip before muttering, “I’m fine.” It sounds a little too automatic to be a truthful reply, plus Bruce doubts that Tim actually thought about it before answering. Time to try another approach.

“Why don’t you take a minute to check in with each part of your body?” he suggests gently. “We’ll start from the bottom and go up.”

Tim nods and absentmindedly scratches at Ace’s fur. He still isn’t looking at them, but that’s relatively normal behavior for traumatized children, so Bruce doesn’t worry too much about it.

“All right. How are your feet? Hot, cold? Aching?”

“They’re fine,” Tim says quietly. He pauses, frowning, and then adds, “Warm, I think.”

“Too warm?”

“No, it’s nice,” Tim mumbles.

“Okay. What about your legs? Are they hot, cold, tired…?”

Tim half-shrugs. “They’re okay, I guess.”

Bruce keeps his face carefully calm and keeps rubbing Tim’s back. “Think about your legs for a second. Wiggle your toes and clench the muscles in your legs. Does anything stand out to you? Does anything hurt or feel weird?”

Frowning, Tim’s eyes go half-focused and his fingers twitch in Ace’s fur. “No?”

“All right,” Bruce says. “Let’s move on to your stomach. Does it hurt or feel weird? Are you hungry?”

Tim’s eyebrows draw together. “I… don’t know?” he sounds unsure.

“If you’d like, I could make some guesses and you could tell me if they sound right or not,” Bruce suggests.

A small nod and Bruce smooths his hand over Tim’s shoulder. “I think that you may be hungry. Your stomach probably hurts a little from hunger or you might feel nauseous. Does that sound about right?” Judging by the lack of dishes in the room, he has his doubts that Tim’s parents were very concerned with feeding their son. When was the last time that Tim ate an actual meal?

The hand holding the stuffed dog twitches and then Tim shrugs, glancing up at Bruce before staring at the ground. “I guess?”

“I’m pretty sure that Alfred is heating up something for you right now,” Bruce says gently, because Alfred has a good instinct for things like that. If anyone needs to be fed, Alfred will somehow know. “That should help your stomach settle down. What about your back? Is it too hot or too cold? Does it hurt?”

Silence. Tim’s eyes look a little bit glassy and unfocused as he stares down at Ace instead of replying. Over Tim’s head, Dick gives Bruce a concerned look and scoots closer to Tim.

“I don’t know,” Tim says at last, ducking his head. “Uh. Hurts, I guess?”

“Hurts how?” Dick asks gently. “Is it sharp pain, or is it more dull?”

“I don’t know,” Tim repeats, sounding a bit helpless.

Bruce smooths his hand over the back of Tim’s neck and watches as Tim goes a bit boneless. (When was the last time that someone held this kid? The last time that someone asked him how he was and genuinely cared about the answer? The last time that--)

(No, focus. He has a job to do, now.)

“Do you want me to take a look at your back?” Bruce asks, keeping his voice carefully even.

“Okay,” Tim nods a little.

“Can you turn around so your back is to me?”

“Come here, Timmy,” Dick murmurs and lets Tim bury his face in his neck. Ace lifts his head and looks a little bit concerned as Tim shifts position, but he sets his head back down after a moment.

“I’m going to lift up the back of your shirt, okay?” He waits for Tim to give a little nod before carefully lifting up the back of Tim’s borrowed sweatshirt, and-- oh.

There’s a line of bruising across Tim’s back, right around his waist. It’s hard to tell if he fell or was hit, but either way, it looks painful. A frown threatens to creep into Bruce’s carefully constructed mask of calm, but he pushes it aside. There will be time for that later.

Dick, his sweet, patient eldest child, runs a hand over the back of Tim’s head and sends Bruce a helpless look. Face softening, Bruce reaches out to cup Dick’s face for a moment.

_I can handle this if you need to step out_.

Dick kisses the top of Tim’s head and just barely shakes his head. All right. Well, if Dick wants to stay and he thinks he can handle it, then he can stay.

Bruce runs a careful eye over the bruises on Tim’s back before asking, “Have you iced your back at all?”

“No,” Tim mumbles into Dick’s shirt.

“Okay. I’m going to touch your back for a moment and make sure that nothing is wrong,” Bruce says. “Tell me if anything hurts, okay?”

He waits for Tim to nod before he starts lightly, so lightly, running his fingers across the bruising. Nothing feels out of place and his spine seems to be okay, which is good. It’s not the best-looking bruising and it probably hurts, but some ice will help. He’ll ask Alfred for some when he returns from the kitchen.

Bruce tugs Tim’s shirt back down. “All done. Good job, buddy.”

Tim twists so his side is pressed against Dick’s chest. This way, Ace has an easier time settling across his lap. Stuffed dog nestled between his chest and Ace’s side, Tim sinks both hands into Ace’s fur and doesn’t reply.

“Let’s move on to your head,” Bruce continues. “How does your face feel? Numb, achy? Do you have a headache or are you dizzy?”

Tim’s face scrunches up as he thinks. “Um.” His fingers tighten in Ace’s fur. “My face hurts? I guess?”

“Where?”

A moment of hesitation, and then Tim pats the bruised side of his face. If Bruce squints, he can see another layer of mostly faded bruising on the other side of Tim’s face. Anger bubbles in his gut, but Bruce forces himself to take a deep breath.

“Can I see?” Tim moves aside his hand and Bruce leans in to inspect the bruising. If he looks carefully, it almost looks like the outline of a hand.

(There’s no way that he’s going to let Tim go back to that house. No fucking way.)

Swallowing his rage, Bruce smiles at Tim. “Thanks, bud. What about the rest of your head? Does it hurt? Are you dizzy?”

Tim half shrugs.

“Want me to guess again?” A small nod, so Bruce continues, “I’d bet that your head hurts a little from dehydration. If you haven’t eaten enough, you’re probably dizzy too. We’ll ask Alfred to get you some water, okay?”

“Okay,” Tim replies as he leans into Dick, who gently wraps his arms around him.

The stuffed dog nearly falls from where it was wedged between Tim’s body and Ace’s. Bruce absently grabs it before it can fall and tucks it back against Tim’s chest. “Is there anything that you think we should know about? Anything that you want or need?”

Tim squints, dragging his hands through Ace’s fur as he thinks. Finally, he looks up at Bruce and hesitantly asks, “Can I have some water? Please?”

“Of course, chum,” Bruce replies smoothly. “I’ll text Alfred right now, actually.”

He pulls out his phone and sends a quick text to Alfred.

Bruce [01/01, 1:31 AM]: Could you please bring some water and two ice packs for Tim?

Alfred [01/01, 1:31 AM]: Of course. I’m heating up some broth for him and will be there in a minute.

Bruce puts his phone away and smiles at Tim. “He’ll be here with water soon. In the meantime, let’s talk about where your head is at.”

Tim frowns, nose crinkling. “But-- it’s right here?” He points at his head and stares at Bruce in confusion.

Dick closes his eyes and mouths something like _oh my god_. Judging by the set of his shoulders, he’s trying to not laugh.

Bruce allows himself a small smile. “I mean the emotions in your head. Are you angry or scared?” Tim looks back down at Ace and Bruce makes sure to go slowly as he continues, “Does your head feel floaty? Are words hard right now?”

“I, uh--” There’s a long pause as Tim tangles his fingers in Ace’s fur and methodically scratches his back. Finally, he says, “It’s kind of floaty? I guess?”

“Okay,” Bruce nods. It makes sense that Tim would be dissociating right now. “And are words hard right now?”

“I‘m not a baby,” Tim replies indignantly, almost reflexively, though it lacks any real heat.

“I know, but at certain times it’s easier to put our thoughts into words than others.”

A pause, and then Tim mumbles, “I guess. Words are a little--” He takes one hand off of Ace and flips it in a so-so motion.

Bruce nods thoughtfully. “Okay. Are you feeling angry or scared right now?”

“I don’t--” Tim buries his hands in Ace’s fur again, rubbing at his ears. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, a little helplessly.

“It’s okay if you don’t know, bud. We can work on figuring it out together.” Bruce reaches out, deliberately slowly, and lets Tim track his movement as he brushes some of Tim’s hair out of his face. Then he smooths his hand over Tim’s hair and hides a smile as Tim leans into his hand. “Why don’t we sit for a bit as we wait for Alfred?” he suggests.

“Aren’t we already sitting,” Tim mumbles, eyes closed.

Smiling, Bruce keeps running his hand through Tim’s hair. “I suppose we are.” He shifts closer so Tim is comfortably sandwiched between him and Dick. With Dick’s arms still comfortably wrapped around him, Tim’s head flops onto Bruce’s shoulder as he continues to pet Tim’s hair. They sit like that in relative silence for a while until Alfred comes into the room, bearing three glasses of water and a steaming bowl of soup.

“Here you go, sir,” he says gently as he hands the bowl to Tim. It looks like his homemade chicken noodle soup.

Tim accepts it with murmured thanks and braces the bowl against Ace’s back before he starts mechanically eating.

Alfred sets the glasses of water down on the coffee table. “I’ll go finish setting up his room,” he murmurs to Bruce.

Bruce nods in reply and offers a faint smile. “Thanks, Alf,” he says quietly. Smiling in reply, Alfred squeezes Bruce’s shoulder before departing.

Dick bounces his leg as he rubs Tim’s back. Bruce glances down at Dick’s leg and then up at his face, raising an eyebrow. In response, Dick nods and then loosens his arms around Tim. “Hey, Timmy. I’m going to take a lap around the room, okay?”

Tim looks up at Dick with wide eyes. “Are you leaving?”

Dick kisses Tim’s forehead. “No, I’m not leaving. I’ll be in the same room as you, I just need to walk around for a bit.”

“Okay,” he mumbles, shifting to allow Dick to stand up without disturbing the bowl of soup. Tim wriggles so he’s sitting closer to Bruce, their sides nearly flush against each other, before he continues eating his soup.

Bruce wraps one arm around Tim’s shoulders and runs his other hand through Tim’s hair as Dick stands up. He stretches his arms above his head before wandering around the room, shaking out his limbs as he does so. When Dick catches Bruce watching him, he shoots Bruce a thumbs up.

They sit quietly for a while with Tim eating his soup and Dick walking around the room. When Tim finishes his soup, Bruce takes the bowl and hands him a glass of water. “You should drink. Crying dehydrates you and I don’t want you to get a headache.”

Tim nods and sips at the water while petting Ace with one hand. Ace, for his part, seems relatively pleased with the attention and is content to simply lay there and be pet. Eventually, Dick wanders back to the sofa and sits down next to Tim, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Tim finishes the glass of water and Dick gently takes it from him, setting it on the coffee table.

“I think it’s time for cuddles,” Dick says mock-seriously, spreading his arms and gently reeling Tim in.

Tim looks a little bewildered-- he’s definitely not fully processing everything, but Dick moves slowly enough that Tim can still track him-- and lets himself be pulled in. Leaning back into the couch, Dick half-pulls Tim into his lap. Ace rearranges himself so his paws are thrown across one of Tim’s legs while Dick cradles Tim against his chest. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Tim doesn’t protest at being cuddled. He looks like he wants to say something, but instead he snuggles up against Dick’s chest. The poor kid must be touch-starved.

Bruce runs his hand through Tim’s hair as Dick rubs his back through the weighted blanket. The den grows comfortably quiet and Bruce contents himself with watching the rise and fall of Tim’s back as he breathes. He’ll open up when he’s ready.

Eventually, Tim sits a bit more upright. Dick moves with him, arms still wrapped securely around him as he keeps Tim nestled against his chest.

“I just-- I don’t know why they left,” Tim says at last, looking up at Bruce with wide eyes. Dick makes a soothing noise and transfers Tim into Bruce’s arms. One hand tangling in the sleeve of Bruce’s bathrobe, Tim looks down at Ace again as he searches for words.

Bruce presses a kiss to the top of Tim’s head but doesn’t say anything, giving him time to speak. After a beat of silence, Tim continues, “I thought… maybe they forgot about me, but I don’t--” he takes a deep breath, “Were they trying to punish me? By leaving me behind?”

“Punish you for what?” Bruce asks carefully, smoothing his hand over Tim’s hair.

Tim burrows a little further into Bruce’s arms. Without making eye contact, he says, “They found me climbing in through my window and they were-- they were so _angry_ , and I….” One hand drifts up to absently touch the fresher-looking bruises on his face. “I was being disrespectful and reckless and-- and I keep putting myself on dangerous situations on purpose and they just want me to be safe.”

Bruce keeps petting Tim’s hair and stays quiet as Dick leans over, pillowing his head on Bruce’s shoulder.

“I just, I thought that maybe they would stay if I kept my grades up and cleaned up after myself and was good enough. But they _left_ ,” Tim whispers. “I yelled for them, but they still left. I don’t-- maybe they couldn’t hear me? So I waited for them to come back because-- maybe they were shopping or watching fireworks or something. But they didn’t come back.”

His eyes start to fill with tears. “They were fighting and then they left. And I don’t-- I don’t know _why_. I should’ve been there because I could’ve helped. But… I just want to _help_. I just want them to come back so we can be a real family.”

When Tim falls silent for long enough that it seems like he’s ran out of words, Bruce kisses his forehead again. “Your parents were angry when you climbed in through the window?” he asks gently. Angry, after all, could mean many things.

Tim nods a little. “Yeah. They-- yelled. For a bit. And then…” his hand creeps up to press at the bruise on his face.

“And then?” Bruce prompts gently.

Without looking at him, Tim mumbles, “Dad slapped me. Just a little. And then-- he pushed me into the windowsill.”

Cold rage rises in Bruce’s chest, but he shoves it back down. Instead, he stays silent and waits patiently for Tim to continue.

“They said that I was being reckless and I said sorry. But then he hit me again and I-- I said I was _sorry,_ ” Tim whispers, fingers digging into Bruce’s robe. “And then-- and then they took all of my stuff. And they locked me in. They locked me _in_ , but I’m…. I tried to be _good_ , but they left me in there--” he gasps raggedly. “But I just gave them another mess to deal with.”

“Deep breaths, sweetheart,” Bruce says gently, rubbing Tim’s back until his breathing evens out. “Good job, there you go. Was that day the first time that they hit you?”

Tim shakes his head. “No, but it’s not-- they’re not bad people,” he protests. “It’s no big deal. They just-- I can be difficult, sometimes, and they work a lot. They have problems too, you know.”

“Problems?” Bruce echoes.

A small shrug, and Tim stares down at Ace. “They’ve been fighting, or they were.” There’s a long beat of silence and then he adds, “They don’t fight all the time. Their trips help, I think. I don’t always… I try to be extra good and to listen, so they don’t fight, but it doesn’t always work. But I _try_ , I promise.”

Bruce nods and pets Tim’s hair as he thinks. Finally, he asks, “What do their fights look like?”

“They don’t talk to each other, sometimes, and they ask me to tell each other stuff. Or they’ll yell, but I’ll try to go to hide in my room.” Tim takes a deep breath. There’s a far-away look in his eyes-- Bruce should keep an eye on his dissociation and try to ease Tim back into the world. “Sometimes, if they’re really mad-- sometimes, they’ll break things, or throw them at each other. Like dishes, and stuff. They were fighting earlier today and I could hear them, but I couldn’t-- I didn’t know if they were okay. I should’ve been there to stop them, to help, but I was--” He sucks in air.

“Take deep breaths, Tim,” Bruce instructs gently, placing one hand between Tim’s shoulder blades. “Breathe in, hold it, and then breathe out. Copy what I’m doing.” He takes one of Tim’s hands and places it in the center of his chest so Tim can feel the movement of Bruce’s lungs inhaling and exhaling.

Eyes wide and filled with tears, Tim struggles to mirror Bruce’s breathing pattern. Instead, he verges towards either hyperventilation, a panic attack, or a combination of the two. “Shh, it’s okay, I’m here,” Bruce murmurs into Tim’s hair. “I’m here, I’ve got you. You did your best, honey.”

Slowly, Tim’s breathing starts to slow down and match Bruce’s. Bruce keeps up the steady stream of reassurances and holds Tim tightly as he clings to Bruce like a lifeline. His harsh breathing morphs into tears and oh, how Bruce’s heart breaks for this brilliant, wonderful kid.

Perhaps a more physical form of reassurance might help. Bruce scoops Tim up, stuffed animal, weighted blanket, and all, and stands up. He sways, carefully shifting his weight back and forth as he rocks Tim. The rocking seems to be effective at soothing Tim, whose desperate sobbing gradually subsides into hiccups and quiet tears.

After a few minutes, Tim looks up at Bruce through tear-filled eyes. “Why are you carrying me? I mean-- I’m not a baby. I’m big. And probably heavy.”

Bruce kisses Tim’s forehead. “You’re not heavy,” he replies easily. “And I’m carrying you because rocking you will help calm you down.”

“What,” says Tim, face crinkling in confusion.

“Here, I’ll show you.” He walks over to the old padded rocking chair by the window and sits down, cradling Tim against his chest. “Rocking will help you feel more in your body,” Bruce explains as he starts to gently rock the chair. “Why don’t we sit for a bit?”

“Okay,” Tim mumbles, leaning his head against Bruce’s chest.

A few strands of hair flop into Tim’s face, so Bruce absentmindedly brushes them away as he begins to hum the melody of a song that he vaguely remembers his mother singing to him when he was young and upset. Tim doesn’t relax fully, but Bruce can feel some of the tension in his muscles start to relax. With one hand, he gently takes Tim’s hand that isn’t holding the stuffed dog and moves it so it rests against Bruce’s throat. At first, Tim makes a confused sound, but he doesn’t move his hand.

Bruce watches as Tim closes his eyes, listening to the gentle humming and feeling the sway of the rocking chair and the quiet vibrations of Bruce’s throat. They sit there for a while until Tim has relaxed some more, pulling the stuffed dog more securely into his chest.

“Tim,” Bruce says finally, running his hair through Tim’s hair, “I’m going to have to call some people tonight and tell them what happened.”

“Like CPP?” Tim asks quietly.

He nods. “Yes, as well as the social worker assigned to our family to let them know that you’ll be staying with us for a while.”

“You’re keeping me?” Tim’s eyes are wide as his hand tightens around the stuffed dog and oh, Bruce’s heart is breaking. “You’re not leaving?”

Bruce presses a kiss to Tim’s hairline. “Tim, sweetheart, you can stay here for as long as you want. Forever, even, if that’s what you’d like.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Tears fill Tim’s eyes again and he sniffles. “Okay. I wanna stay here,” he mumbles, burrowing into Bruce’s chest.

Smiling, Bruce smooths Tim’s hair back. “All right. I’ll let them know.” Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Dick creeping closer. “I’m going to go call them now, okay?”

Tim’s hand immediately latches onto the lapel of Bruce’s bathrobe. “You’re going?” he whispers, eyes wide.

“I’ll be in the same room as you the whole time,” he promises. “I’m just going to hand you over to Dick for a bit, okay?”

Tim nods a little and Bruce stands up, ignoring the way that his knees crack. “Here you go. One Timmy, as requested,” he says as he passes Tim, wrapped in the weighted blanket and with the stuffed dog still in his hands, over to Dick.

“A Timmy just for me?” Dick gasps. “Oh, Bruce, you shouldn’t have. I’ve always wanted my very own Timmy.” Tim’s brows furrow a little, but Dick just plants a big kiss on his forehead. “Let’s sit down for a bit, baby bird.”

Bruce watches carefully as Dick folds himself into the rocking chair, planting one foot on the ground to rock it and throwing the other over the armrest. Tim ends up curled up in a little ball on Dick’s chest as Dick starts singing quietly. The song sounds familiar-- he vaguely remembered Dick telling him that his father used to sing it to him when he was little. Tim still looks out of it, but at least he doesn’t look actively distressed anymore. They’ll have to keep an eye on his dissociation for the next few days.

Satisfied that Dick has the situation handled, Bruce pulls out his phone and dials the number for Child Protection and Permanency’s hotline. Ace curls up at his feet as he speaks to the operator, laying out the details that Tim had given him as well as other pieces of information that Bruce inferred during Tim’s stay with them. They discuss the bruises, the aversion to touch, the shattered dishware, the fights, the abandonment, the locked bedroom.

All the while, Bruce keeps an eye on Tim. At some point, Alfred steps in and takes over so Dick can have a break. Bruce smiles faintly as Alfred sets Tim next to him in the rocking chair and as he starts to sing old lullabies. Eventually, Dick returns and takes Alfred’s place in the chair so he can drape Tim across his chest again.

Dick has just exhausted his supply of French lullabies and is moving on to German ones when something nudges the edge of Bruce’s awareness. Frowning, Bruce glances around the room until-- oh.

That’s Jason standing in the doorway with a blanket half-draped around his shoulders and one sock well on its way to falling off his foot. His wide eyes are fixed on Tim, or more specifically, the bruises on Tim’s face. Jason’s eyes are wide and his hands clutch his blanket so tightly that his knuckles are white.

“Dad?” Jason asks quietly, turning to Bruce. There’s a tremor in his voice that doesn’t bode well and, oh, Jason’s hands are shaking. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Sorry, can you please give us a minute? My other son just woke up,” Bruce says into the phone and mutes his end of the call before setting his phone down on a side table. Jason stumbles over, nearly tripping over his blanket, and Bruce instinctively holds out his hands to steady him.

“Dad, what’s-- Tim is--” Jason can’t seem to form full sentences and his chest is rising and falling far faster than Bruce would like.

Bruce spreads his arms and Jason leans forward, clumsily tumbling into his lap. “Shhh, Jaybird. Tim is going to be okay. I’ve got you.”

Alfred materializes next to them and drops a pair of heavy-duty earplugs into Bruce’s hand. “These might help, sir.”

“Thanks, Alf.” Bruce tries to convey all of his gratitude to Alfred in a single look, but Alfred merely smiles, squeezes his shoulder in understanding, and heads back to where Dick is quietly singing to Tim in German. “I need to continue this call, but I want you to put in these earplugs and try to mirror my breathing, okay?”

Eyes wide and a little glassy, Jason nods and puts in the earplugs. He curls up on Bruce’s lap with his head resting right next to Bruce’s heart. Bruce gently adjusts his armful of overwhelmed teenager and lets Jason take a long moment to listen to Bruce’s heartbeat and breathing. After a minute, Jason’s breathing is a bit less frantic.

“There you go,” Bruce murmurs, kissing the top of Jason’s head and carefully adjusting the blanket to keep it from slipping off of Jason’s shoulders. After a moment of thought, he grabs a second blanket from where it rested across the arm of the chair and drapes it around Jason.

Satisfied that Jason is properly bundled up, Bruce picks up the phone again and starts running his hair through Jason’s hair. “I’m back. Where were we?”

Bruce finishes making his report on the CPP hotline and dials the number for his family’s social worker. Jason’s eyes gradually close and though he doesn’t fall asleep, at least he’s resting. Plus, he doesn’t seem like he’s on the edge of a panic attack anymore. It’ll do him some good to take a moment to rest.

Finally, he finishes talking to the social worker. Bruce sets down his phone and looks around at his children. Jason is half-asleep against his chest, Tim is sprawled bonelessly on Dick, and Dick is rubbing his back as he sings. He leans forward a bit and Jason opens his eyes, blinking up at Bruce.

“I think it’s about time for everyone to get some sleep,” he announces to the room at large. As he speaks, he does the ASL sign for _sleep,_ moving his hand down from his forehead to his chin and bringing his fingers together. 

Jason gives him a little nod. “I can walk,” he mumbles. “Are we all going to your room?”

Bruce nods. “I think it’s best if we all stay together,” he says, moving two thumbs up in a small circle in the sign for _together._

Across the room, Dick sits up with one hand on Tim’s back to keep him pressed to Dick’s chest. “Good idea.” He scoops up Tim, who looks more than a little drowsy.

“What’s going on?” Tim mumbles, rubbing at his eyes.

“We’re all going to sleep on Bruce’s bed,” Dick explains gently.

“But-- I’m not-- I don’t want to _intrude_ , but--” Looking a bit hesitant, Tim stumbles over his words before he finally settles down and curls his fingers into Dick’s sleeve. “Okay,” he sighs, dropping his head onto Dick’s shoulder. “Okay.” Behind Tim’s back, Dick gives Bruce a thumbs up as he carries Tim into the hallway.

Jason stumbles to his feet, clutching his blanket to keep it wrapped around his shoulders. Most of his hair is sticking up and going different directions, so Bruce runs a hand through it to smooth it down.

“Let’s go,” Bruce says even though Jason can’t hear him, and slips his hand into Jason’s. (No matter how old they get, Bruce’s kids will always be little to him.)

Together, they make their way over to Bruce’s bedroom. Dick is already laying down in the center of the bed with his limbs all wrapped around a very drowsy-looking Tim. Jason hops onto the bed and lays down on Dick’s other side. One of Dick’s arms briefly lets go of Tim so he can reach over and pat Jason’s back. Bruce takes his place on the edge of the pile next to Jason and starts rhythmically rubbing his son’s back.

Tim falls asleep rather quickly, which is unsurprising considering the day he’s had. It takes Jason a while longer to drift off, even with Bruce rubbing his back. Once Jason is finally asleep, Bruce carefully disentangles himself and sits up. Dick glances over at him and Bruce reaches over to run his hand over Dick’s hair.

“I’ll be in the hallway,” he murmurs, careful to avoid waking the sleeping children.

Dick gives a little nod and tucks Tim’s head under his chin. Bruce can just barely see Alfred’s shadow in the hallway-- Dick is capable of holding down the fort for a while. Sliding off the bed, Bruce slips out of the room and leaves the door mostly closed behind him.

(He doesn’t fully close it; Tim likely isn’t ready to be in a bedroom with a closed door tonight.)

“Alfred,” Bruce murmurs, voice low. “I--” he sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “These _kids_. They’re just kids, Alf,” he says helplessly.

Alfred reaches out and cups Bruce’s face with one hand, stroking his cheek with a thumb. He stays silent, waiting for Bruce to finish, for him to put words to the pain that threatens to break his heart into pieces. For a moment, Bruce is sixteen again and Alfred is wiping away his tears after a heartbreak, or a painful injury, or even just a particularly bad day.

“I hate seeing them hurt,” he whispers at last. “They’re so _young_. And I… I just want them to be happy, but they’re hurt and I don’t know what to _do_.” Bruce takes a deep breath as Alfred wipes away the tears that are beginning to roll down his cheeks.

“Oh, my boy,” Alfred says softly and pulls Bruce in for a hug. Bruce leans over so he can tuck his head into Alfred’s chest the way that he did when he was younger. “Sometimes all you can do is be with them. You are doing enough, I promise you.”

Bruce nods tearfully as Alfred presses a kiss to the top of Bruce’s head just as Bruce did to his children only minutes ago.

“They’ll be all right,” Alfred murmurs. “I can promise you that.”

“How do you know?”

Another kiss to the top of his head. “You turned out all right, didn’t you?”

Bruce laughs wetly. “I dress up as a bat and punch people.”

This earns a quiet laugh. “I suppose, but you also have a big heart. You’ve done a lot of good, my boy.”

Bruce doesn’t have a good reply to that, so he ducks his head and lets his second father hold him for a while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you to my beta, [S](https://chocolateandsilver.tumblr.com/), for their incredible Editing Skillz™ and also to [goldkirk](https://goldkirk.tumblr.com/) for cheering me on!!
> 
> I have some Thoughts for you about the title of this chapter. The title is from Funeral Bell by Phildel and the line is _"i could pray but it won't stop you leaving"_. Onions have layers, and so does my analysis!
> 
> **Layer 1:** Tim's parents leaving
> 
> Tim calls out to them but they leave anyways. To Tim, they're these absolute powers in his life and he sees them as (almost) always justified because they're Good People and They Love Him. You could make the argument that the lyric mirrors what happens with Tim calling out to these higher powers and them deserting him anyways. (That is, if they were even there for him in the first place.)  
> 
> 
> **Layer 2:** at the end of the chapter, Bruce puts the kids to bed and then slips out of his bedroom to go cry with Alfred in the hallway 
> 
> Technically, Bruce physically leaves. However, there's are two key differences between Bruce's departure and that of the Drakes. First, Bruce makes sure that his children's needs are met before he leaves. They don't need to call out to him for anything because he makes sure that they're fine. Second, Bruce physically left but his love is still there with them.  
> 
> 
> Sometimes, people can't always physically be there with you. However, their lack of a physical presence doesn't mean that they'll stop loving you. Plus, if you call out to them, they'll come. If Tim calls for Bruce, he'll drop everything and come back for Tim.  
> 
> 
> Please have Feelings with me. Thank you. (Also, thank you for reading!! <3)


	19. today was just a day and you dealt with it okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim deals with the aftermath and Bruce helps him pick up the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Soon Soon by Tom Rosenthal.
> 
> This is the longest chapter in the fic. If you know that reading about dissociation is a trigger for you, then I would highly advise being careful with this chapter! Take care of yourselves!! <3
> 
>  **CWs:** long dissociative episode, discussions of abuse/neglect, doctor's visit with the one and only Dr. Leslie Thompkins, brief mention of drawing blood, needles (depictions of getting shots), brief mention of low weight/eating (Tim needs more food)

Tim wakes up in a cocoon of pleasant, soft warmth. Grumbling, he rolls over onto his stomach and pulls his blankets over his head. His carefully arranged blankets shift as something forces its way in and then there’s something wet on his face.

“What,” Tim groans, throwing up his hands to defend himself from the onslaught of wet stuff on his face.

“Ace, leave it!” someone nearby calls and then his blankets settle again.

But unfortunately, Tim is awake now. Wiping off his face, Tim pokes his head out of the blankets. Oh. He’s on the massive bed in Bruce’s room and there’s Dick coaxing Ace onto the floor.

Dick looks up and smiles when he sees Tim. “Hey, Timbo. I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

Tim blinks, frowning. “What time is it?” he croaks.

It takes a second for Dick to check his phone, but then he replies, “Half past eleven. We went to sleep around three.”

The events of the previous night come crashing back and Tim stiffens. He slept on Bruce’s bed with his kids, but he’s not-- he’s not a Wayne. It was _improper_. Tim sits up, pushing the weighted blanket off. He’s still wearing his mismatched outfit of borrowed clothes, like a baby who needs comforting. And then--

And then there’s his dad’s suitcase going down the stairs and the front door closing and his parents' car driving away.

Tim swallows hard. His stomach twists with shapeless, staticy discomfort. He opens his mouth as if to say something and then closes it.

“Alfred got your room ready for you if you want it,” Dick offers. “And if you want, you could eat in your room. I could come hang out with you if you want, or if you want to be alone--”

Tim’s skin crawls. The idea of someone else-- _seeing_ him sounds absolutely abhorrent. He’d much rather crawl into a hole and stay there for the next twenty years. “That’s fine,” he replies quickly. “I’d rather be alone. And, um, I don’t want to make anyone go to the effort of bringing me things--”

“It’s no problem, I’ll text Alfred. Do bagels and fresh fruit sound good?”

The idea of real food makes Tim’s stomach growl. “Sure, that’s fine.”

Dick nods. “All right. You should take Ace with you.”

“Cool, thanks,” Tim replies just as his ability to deal with other people runs out and he flees out of the room’s open door. Ace picks up a chew toy and trots along with him.

Luckily, they don’t run into anyone in the hallways and Tim is able to duck into his room without any interference. He starts closing the door behind himself, but the idea of a closed bedroom door makes him want to crawl out of his own skin, so he leaves it slightly ajar. After a moment of thought, he sets a few books on the ground to prop it open. Just in case. It never hurts to be too careful, after all.

Satisfied, Tim drops his weighted blanket on the bed before throwing himself face first onto the mattress. He wants to-- scream, or crawl out of his skin, and never have anyone look at him ever again. Tim doesn’t want to be _seen_. And his head feels weirdly foggy and he wants to sleep for a million years and-- this _sucks_.

He lifts his head from the mattress and-- oh, that’s his phone charging next to his bed. Over on the desk, there’s his laptop and his backpack laying on the ground next to his desk chair. There are duffel bags in front of the dresser-- how did Tim not notice those when he walked in?-- and, sitting on the chair next to his bed, is the new camera that he bought while staying with Bruce to replace the shitty one that his parents bought. Wait, there’s another identical camera sitting next to it. Is that--?

Tim sits up and leans over to peer at the cameras. Yes, that’s his old camera next to his new one. They’re both the same model, but his old one has seen a little more love over the years. His box of lenses sits next to it. There’s a sticky note on it in Bruce’s neat handwriting that says, _some of your lenses looked broken when I found them. We can find new ones together if you’d like. --B._

Why does Tim feel like he wants to cry? He hugs the stuffed dog close to his chest before remembering, right, this is Dick’s stuffed animal. Well, he’d better go give it back later. Tim gingerly sets the stuffed dog down next to his camera before turning his attention to his phone.

It’s fully charged, so he unplugs it. There are several missed messages from the Waynes that were sent over the past few days, but Tim only looks at the most recent ones. It looks like Bruce texted him earlier that morning.

Bruce [01/01, 9:16 AM]: Leslie Thompkins is coming over at 1 this afternoon to do a mandatory checkup at 2 PM since you’re entering the foster system. She’s also going to document your bruises for CPP.

Bruce [01/01, 9:17 AM]: I think that I picked up all of your things from your parents’ house, but let me know if I missed anything.

Bruce [01/01, 9:18 AM]: I’ll be in the basement if you need me.

The basement, meaning the Batcave. Tim sets down his phone and drops his face into the mattress. Ace noses at his hair before settling down next to Tim. His head is buzzing vaguely like it’s full of television static. Maybe he should take a nap…

A knock on the partially ajar door draws Tim out of his thoughts. Lifting his head, he blinks drowsily at the source of the sound. “Hello?”

“Can I come in? I have food,” Dick says.

“Yeah, okay,” Tim replies, settling back down on the bed.

Dick nudges the door open and slips inside with a plate containing a bagel and what looks like an assortment of cubed melon, grapes, and berries. There are two glasses precariously balanced on the tray, one with water and one with some sort of mysterious liquid. He sets it on Tim’s nightstand. “Here you go! A bagel, a bunch of fruit, and a strawberry banana smoothie. Oh, and some water. I won’t leave until you’ve drank half the glass.”

That’s a pretty serious threat, especially during times like these. Eyes narrowing, Tim picks up the water glass and starts drinking. As he does so, Dick darts around the bed to pick up the stuffed dog from its seat in the armchair.

“Oh, you can have that back--” Tim tries to say. However, Dick ignores him and tucks it under Tim’s arm.

“Nah, it’s yours now,” Dick says cheerily. “Okay, good talk, bye!” With that, he kisses Tim’s forehead and bounds out of the room.

“...What,” Tim says to Ace, who merely wags his tail in response.

After a moment, he regards the platter of food. The idea of food isn’t super appealing, but the smoothie sounds maybe interesting. Tim sits up in bed and sips on his smoothie as he scrolls through his email, catching up on the news of the past few days. Ace shoves his head into Tim’s lap, so Tim absently scratches his ears.

At around noon, Tim drags himself out of bed to go brush his teeth and shower. He sits on the floor of the shower for an extra fifteen minutes as water rains down on his head and his brain softly hums. Afterwards, he knows that he _should_ get dressed in Real Person Clothes, but he’s so tired. But there’s company coming over. But he’s _tired_.

In the end, Tim compromises with nice jeans and a soft cable knit sweater. It’s cozy enough that he can snuggle up in it while also looking presentable. After all, if his parents saw him wearing sweatpants when there was company over, they would--

He refuses to finish the thought. His brain spins its wheels, wanting to dissect the thought more but lacking the energy to do so. It takes an enormous amount of energy to do anything so instead of doing things, Tim watches youtube videos until Bruce texts him that Leslie will be here in ten minutes. Only then does he shrug off his weighted blanket, leave his phone on his bed-- it would be rude to have his phone out when people are over--, and trudges out of his room.

Ace pads alongside him as Tim drifts downstairs. Without the now-familiar pressure of his weighted blanket around his shoulders, Tim feels like a ghost haunting the halls of Wayne Manor.

Cold winter sunshine streams in through the curtains of one of the windows in the hallway. Tim stops in front of the window and presses both hands against the glass even though he _knows_ it’ll leave handprints. The glass is faintly chilly under his hands and Tim presses his hands harder against it, revelling in the sensation.

Time becomes a fluid, formless thing as Tim’s head continues to buzz with static. Eventually, Ace nudges Tim’s hip with his head. Tim ignores him and leans forwards to press his forehead against the cold glass. The nudging grows more insistent.

“Tim?” Someone behind him says. _Bruce_ , his brain supplies after a brief lag.

A hand on his shoulder gently peels him away from the window. Tim blinks up at Bruce in confusion as one of his hands drifts down to finally pet Ace. Bruce doesn’t even say anything about the oily marks left on the window where Tim touched it.

“Hi, buddy. How about we go to the den, okay?” Bruce suggests, his eyes searching Tim’s. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t seem to find it. “I’ll walk with you.”

Tim half-shrugs because words are hard and coming up with replies is even harder. He starts ambling towards the den before Bruce slips his hand into Tim’s free one like Tim is a _baby_ , but he doesn’t protest. It’s easier to let Bruce hold his hand than to cause a fuss about it. They walk over to the den like that, with one of Tim’s hands in Bruce’s warm, callused one and the other tangled in Ace’s soft fur.

When they reach the den, Bruce gently herds Tim onto one of the couches. Tim obediently sits down and Bruce immediately drapes a blanket around his shoulders. It’s soft and warm and, oh, it’s like being wrapped in a firm hug. A weighted blanket, then. Ace hops onto the couch a moment later and lays his head in Tim’s lap, letting him stick his hands out of the blanket just far enough to pet his head.

“Let’s sit in here for a bit, okay?” Bruce says as he takes a seat next to Tim.

Part of Tim curls away at the prospect of Bruce sitting next to him and-- paying attention to him, but protesting takes so much energy. He just nods, says, “Okay,” and scratches Ace’s head.

After a few minutes of feeling the weight of the blanket and the softness of Ace’s fur, the static in Tim’s head subsides somewhat. It’s still there, but he’s drifting less and it feels like he’s more _here_.

“There you are,” Bruce says with a smile, kissing his temple. A moment later, Dr. Leslie Thompkins walks into the den.

“What, no warm greeting for me?” She says with a wry smile.

Rolling his eyes slightly, Bruce stands up to wrap Dr. Thompkins in a hug. “Hi, Leslie. It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you when you’re not bleeding to death,” Dr. Thompkins replies, patting Bruce’s shoulder as he steps away. “And it’s always nice to pay you a visit when it’s not a life-or-death emergency.”

Bruce sighs, but he’s smiling warmly. “I suppose that you may have a point.”

Dr. Thompkins turns to face Tim. “Hi, Tim. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Tim mumbles, stroking Ace’s fur even as his head screams _please stop looking at me_. Her eyes linger on his face for a split second too long and Tim belatedly remembers the bruising on his face. Ducking his head, he stares at Ace and hopes that the adults will just ignore him.

“Here, Leslie, why don’t you take a seat--”

They arrange themselves so Bruce is sitting down next to Tim again and start discussing some home improvement project that Dr. Thompkins is working on in her spare time. Or what little spare time she has, anyways. Tim mostly keeps an eye on their tone and tunes out specific words, although the word shiplap does come up multiple times. (What the heck is shiplap?)

Alfred comes in and sets a large platter with lots of little dishes on it down in front of them. Tim lifts his head and finds lots of stacks of little sandwiches along with what looks like a small cheese platter and some of Alfred’s homemade cookies.

“Oh, this looks lovely, Alfred. Thank you,” Dr. Thompkins says, putting a hand on his arm.

Alfred merely in reply. “Only the best for those of us who are instrumental in our mission of keeping the family in one piece.”

Dr. Thompkins laughs and Bruce turns to Tim. “What would you like, chum?”

Tim shrugs. “I’m fine with anything.”

Bruce nods thoughtfully and starts loading one of the larger empty plates with a little bit of everything. At first, Tim assumes that Bruce is getting his own food, but then he hands the plate to Tim. “There you go.”

“Thank you,” Tim replies automatically as he accepts the plate.

He examines the little sandwiches and finds one with mozzarella, tomato, and arugula. All right, that sounds acceptable. Tim takes small bites of it and chews mechanically while Bruce and Leslie chat about one of Jason’s upcoming baking projects-- apparently he wants to try making macarons. There’s a small turkey and cheddar sandwich that’s pretty good too. After that, Tim is too full, so he nibbles on one of Alfred’s chocolate chip cookies. Casually setting his still mostly-full plate aside, Tim leans back into the couch and starts petting Ace with both hands.

“--go, Tim?”

Tim glances up and finds Bruce looking at him. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Are you ready to go?” Bruce repeats, not unkindly. “We can bring some of this downstairs, if you’d like.”

“I’m ready to go whenever you are,” Tim replies quickly. “And no, that’s fine.”

“Okay,” Bruce says easily. “I’m going to bring some of these cookies, though. They’re really good.”

“Alfred really does make the best cookies,” Dr. Thompkins agrees as she rises to her feet. “Well, shall we?”

Tim stands up, shedding the weighted blanket. Bruce, however, picks up the platter of cookies in one hand and tosses the weighted blanket over his shoulder. He neatly slides his free hand into Tim’s like Tim is some sort of _child_. However, it’s kind of nice. Tim is still drifting, but Bruce’s hand acts like a tether, grounding him.

Together, the three of them plus Ace head into the study and down the stairs into the Batcave. (Tim is dimly grateful that they didn’t take the service elevator. The tight space and inability to escape… yeah, that doesn’t sound great.)

As they head over to the medical bay, Jason walks out of the training area. He has a stony expression and earbuds in his ears, but he spares a small smile for Tim and gives him a fist bump as they pass by each other. His footsteps echo through the cave as he jogs up the stairs.

“So, Tim, let’s go over what we’re going to do today,” Dr. Thompkins says as they all walk into the medbay. “This visit has several purposes. First, we need to document your bruises for CPP. Second, everyone entering the foster system for the first time gets a general checkup to see how you’re doing. Third, I was looking over your medical files this morning and it looks like you’re due for a few vaccinates. We’ll do those at the very end, okay?”

“Okay,” Tim mumbles, standing awkwardly between the cushioned chairs in the corner of the medbay and the examination tables in the center.

“We’re going to start by taking photographs of your bruises. Now, we need Bruce here for this because there technically has to be another person in the room with me as an official witness. However, if you want to send him or Ace away afterwards, we can do that. Does that sound good?”

Tim nods a little and runs his hand over the edge of the examination table. “They can stay,” he says after a moment of silence. “I… don’t mind.”

“All right. Let’s go to the corner over there, we need a white background.”

They head over to an empty space along the wall. Dr. Thompkins lets Tim pet Ace while she takes pictures of the bruises on his face. He takes off his shirt and faces the wall while she photographs his back. It feels-- Tim isn’t sure how he feels. He feels a bit like the wall: a vast, blank expanse of nothingness. Just sitting there in plain sight, on display for everyone to _see_.

Dr. Thompkins finishes taking the photos and she tells him that he did really well before she steps away to go do something with them, Tim doesn’t really know what. He puts his shirt back on and crouches on the floor next to Ace and he just--

He just--

He doesn’t even know what he wants. All he knows is that he’s trying to breathe and Ace’s fur is soft under his hands and he feels _bad_ and this really, really fucking sucks.

Bruce kneels next to him, weighted blanket in hand and brow creased in concern. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says gently. “Do you want the weighted blanket back?”

Tim hesitates before shrugging. Bruce nods thoughtfully. “Let’s try it and see if it helps, okay?” He unfolds the blanket and carefully drapes it around Tim’s shoulders.

The soft pressure of the blanket around his shoulders doesn’t fix the situation, per se, but it helps. So does Bruce’s hand running through his hair. Tim leans into the contact, letting his head rest heavily on Bruce’s hand. They sit there for a minute on the floor as Tim tries to wrestle his brain into something resembling cooperation. And he-- he doesn’t want to be _seen_ , but he also doesn’t know what he wants, and this whole situation blows major chunks.

Finally, Bruce breaks the silence. “Tim, buddy, you were really brave and I’m proud of you for doing such a hard thing. If you’re ready, Leslie can get started on your general checkup. I know that you don’t like this, but she’ll go as quickly as possible so you can be done faster, all right?”

Tim rubs at his eyes and nods, unfurling slightly. “Yeah, all right,” he mumbles after a moment.

Bruce offers him a hand and helps him stand up. “I’ll be here the whole time. I won’t leave you, okay?”

“Okay,” Tim says quietly before taking a seat on the examination table.

“How about we play some music during your checkup? Do you have a playlist or favorite artist that you want to listen to?”

Swinging his feet, Tim tries to think of an artist, or even a genre, but instead he forgets everything he’s ever listened to. He shrugs a little helplessly at Bruce, who nods in understanding.

“How about Tom Rosenthal?” Bruce suggests.

“That’s fine.”

Bruce nods and takes out his phone. A few seconds later, soft piano notes float through the speakers in the medbay. Still ensconced by the weighted blanket, Tim drums his fingers as he listens to the beginning of the vocals.

Dr. Thompkins walks over with a stethoscope around her neck. “Oh, this is a pretty song,” she says. Tim nods absently. “Well, how about we get started? I’m going to check your heart and lungs with my stethoscope first--”

The checkup passes in a whirlwind of stethoscopes and otoscopes and Dr. Thompkins and Bruce’s banter and soft music. Like before, when he saw Dr. Thompkins for his ankle, she narrates everything she’s doing and doesn’t touch him unless necessary. She’s moving more slowly than before, he thinks, but it’s probably because he can’t help but tense a little every time she gets too close.

Instead of a blood pressure cuff, the medbay has a weird little device that clips onto his finger and measures his blood pressure and oxygen saturation levels. Dr. Thompkins explains all of the different chemicals in blood, with the occasional comment from Bruce, as she slides the little device onto his finger.

“That’s still high,” Bruce murmurs as he looks at the number.

Dr. Thompkins makes a noise of agreement as she writes down the number.

“Mind if I try an idea?” he asks.

Without looking up from her clipboard, she waves a hand at him. “Be my guest,” she replies.

Bruce stands up and Ace rises with him. “Ace, go,” he says, pointing at the examination table that Tim is currently sitting on. Ace hops up onto the low table and immediately lays down with his chin resting on Tim’s leg.

Dr. Thompkins glances up and smiles. “That’s a pretty good idea.”

Bruce resumes his seat in the comfortable armchair. “Thank you.”

The rest of the checkup is a little easier now that Tim can pet Ace. It kind of sucks when Dr. Thompkins has to draw a vial of blood, but he’s able to pet Ace’s head with his free hand. Finally, they near the end of the appointment.

“So, Tim, it looks like you’re due for boosters for… hmm, quite a few vaccines. We’re only going to do your third dose of haemophilus influenzae, fourth dose of pneumococcal conjugate, and HPV today, but we’ll do the rest at a later date, okay?”

Tim nods and stares at the tip of Ace’s ear. It’s flopping over a little.

Bruce stands up from his chair and walks over to the examination table. “You know, it’s always helped Jason and Dick if I hold their hands when they’re getting shots. Want to try?”

Glancing up at Bruce, Tim narrows his eyes. Does he think that Tim needs to have his hand held like a child? Then again, Jason is three years older than Tim and Dick is technically an adult. Do they both-- hm. His brain is too foggy and slow to fully contemplate the problem, so without looking at Bruce, Tim holds out his right hand. 

“Other hand, sweetheart. You’re right handed, so I’ll hold your right hand while you get your shots on your left arm,” Bruce says gently.

“Oh.” Feeling a little bit foolish, Tim switches hands. Bruce’s hand is warm and callused as he lightly squeezes Tim’s hand.

Dr. Thompkins walks back to the examination table with a tray containing several needles. “All right, this is going to be similar to the blood draw except these shots will be much faster. You’re going to feel a little pinch. Try to keep your arm still, okay?”

Tim nods as he looks over the tray. “Okay.”

“Tim?” Bruce says. “Try looking at me or at the posters on the wall. It’ll make you less aware of the shots, which will improve the whole experience.”

After a moment, Tim chooses to stare at the posters on the wall. Dick and Jason must have put them up. There’s a collection of posters ranging from a cat dangling from a tree branch bearing the slogan _HANG IN THERE!_ to minimalist posters of several Justice League heroes.

Dr. Thompkins rubs something cold on Tim’s arm.

“Did you know that Superman likes to knit?” Bruce asks conversationally.

Blinking in surprise, Tim turns his head to look at Bruce. “He does?”

Bruce nods. “His mother enjoys knitting, so she taught him a while ago. When he’s on watch at the Watchtower, he usually brings some yarn and knitting needles.”

“Really?” The image of Superman knitting while on duty is a little bit mind-boggling.

“Really. With his superspeed, he’s pretty fast at it too. Most members of the JLA have received a sweater from him at one point or another.”

“Whoah,” Tim breathes.

“I’ll have to show you all of mine sometime. Normally, he knits whatever pattern he feels like at the time, but almost all of mine have the Superman symbol on them.”

Dr. Thompkins laughs. “Superman does have a good sense of humor. Oh, and your shots are all done, Tim. What kind of bandaid do you want? Bruce has quite the selection here.” She holds out a box with a variety of different bandaids that range from Wonder Woman to Frozen to sparkly holographic.

“Um,” Tim says as his brain decides to freeze. “I don’t-- anything is fine.”

“Want me to pick for you?” Bruce offers gently. Tim nods gratefully. Brow creased in concentration, Bruce digs through the box until he produces three bandaids: one with Elsa on it, a holographic rainbow one, and a pikachu bandaid. “Do these look good?”

“Yeah, those are good.”

Bruce passes the bandaids to Dr. Thompkins, who smooths it onto Tim’s arm before Tim can do it himself. Then Bruce steps in and pulls the weighted blanket over Tim’s shoulders again, enveloping him in gentle pressure once more.

“Well, we’re almost done for today,” Dr Thompkins says. When Tim tenses, she adds, “You don’t have to sit through any more tests for now. I did want to talk to you and Bruce, however. And no, you didn’t do anything wrong-- I know that look on your face, Tim.”

Tim tries to wipe the frown off of his face as Bruce straightens up, his face sliding into Batman’s calmness. “What is it?” Bruce asks, head slightly tilted.

Dr. Thompkins leans against the examination table next to Tim’s. “Well, based on everything I’ve seen today, it seems like Tim has failure to thrive. His height and weight are far below what we’d expect for a boy of his age.”

Tim frowns as his thoughts slowly churn. “But-- we have plenty of food at home,” he says before his brain catches up with his words. “I mean-- uh.” Will they even let him go back to Drake Manor? Emotions are hard and Tim can’t summon more than faint worry and a tangled ball of discomfort.

One of Bruce’s hands lands on Tim’s back and begins rubbing circles. There’s a calculating glint in his eyes that means he’s running this information through his head and making mental notes to update all of his plans and backup plans and backup plans for his backup plans.

“Failure to thrive can occur even when you have access to food,” Dr. Thompkins explains gently. “It means that, for one reason or another, your body isn’t able to process the energy and nutrition in your food. As a result, your growth was impeded.”

Tim blinks as he absorbs the information.

“We can explain it more later, when you’re feeling better,” Bruce tells him, kissing his temple.

Dr. Thompkins’ phone chimes and she pulls it out of her pocket before sighing. “Well, that’s my cue.”

“Need help gathering your things?” Bruce offers, but Dr. Thompkins merely pats his shoulder and waits for him to lean down far enough for her to kiss his cheek.

“I’ll be fine, Bruce,” she assures him. “You have more important things to worry about right now. And Tim, you were an excellent patient. Good job.”

“Thanks,” Tim replies automatically.

She gathers her supplies and carries them over to the service elevator. The doors open and she disappears behind them with a smile. Once she’s gone, Tim slumps a little and stares blankly at the top of Ace’s head, letting his hand rest one the back of Ace’s neck.

“You know,” Bruce says, interrupting the loud, shapeless static in Tim’s head, “Ace probably needs to go out. Why don’t we let him outside and play with him for a bit?”

Tim half-shrugs, which Bruce seems to take as a yes. Like before, he extends one hand to Tim, but Tim ignores it. He’s been touched enough over the past hour to last him for-- oh, a few months, probably. Tim hops off the examination table and shuffles towards the stairs with Ace trotting alongside him.

Luckily, Bruce seems to get that Tim doesn’t want to talk, so they walk in silence. They stop by the hall closet to grab a jacket for Bruce, a leash for Ace, and shoes for both of them. Instead of trying to make Tim take off his blanket and put on a coat, Bruce merely bundles him up with another blanket. Then they’re off on their journey outside.

It’s a warm day for January, but the air outside is still plenty chilly. Tim plods over to one of the cushioned outdoor chairs and plops himself down in it, pulling his knees up to his chest. Bruce asked him to come outside, and now he’s outside. Standing up is too much effort and Tim would really rather just sit down, stare into the distance, and let his brain fade out of focus for a while.

Also, if anyone else looks at him or touches him, Tim is pretty sure that he’s going to throw up.

Bruce grabs a tennis ball from the little bin next to the door and strolls over so he’s standing a few feet away from Tim. “Ace!” he calls. Ace immediately sits down in front of Bruce, ears perked. Then the ball goes soaring across the grass and Ace bounds after it.

Thankfully, Bruce doesn’t seem inclined to make small talk. Tim sits in silence as Ace runs back and forth, chasing the ball and then bringing it back. At one point, Ace heads to Tim instead of Bruce and drops the ball in front of the chair.

“I think he wants you to throw it,” Bruce says, looking amused. “Want to give it a try?”

Tim looks between Bruce and the clearly eager dog in front of him before he makes a decision. Leaning forward, he grabs the ball in a hand that doesn’t quite feel like his and throws it. It doesn’t go exactly where he was aiming, but Ace doesn’t seem to mind. He races after the ball and grabs it mid-bounce before trotting back. Ace drops the ball in front of Tim again and looks up at him expectantly.

“Here, I have an idea. Hang on a minute,” Bruce says and walks over to the bin of dog toys. Tim watches listlessly as Bruce rummages around the bin before producing a plastic stick with a weird-looking scoop at the end. He walks back to Tim and hands him the plastic stick. “This is a ball launcher. It might make it easier to throw things for Ace,” he explains.

Tim stares at the stick, turning it over in his hands, before scooping up Ace’s ball with the attachment at the end of the stick. It fits perfectly, so he clumsily swings the stick forward and flings the ball a good twenty feet away. Again, his aim is pretty off, but at least it went farther than before. Satisfied, Tim sticks his hands out of the blanket so he can keep holding the stick and oh, the metal arms of the chair are cold. They’re cold and smooth and they don’t cut through the static in his head, not exactly, but they’re something. He feels something, just a little bit.

The cold metal leeches the warmth from his skin as Tim keeps his hands pressed to the arms of the chair and revels in the sensation. Ace runs back and drops the ball in front of Bruce, who throws it again. This time, Ace retrieves the ball and stops in front of Tim, tongue lolling.

With clumsy hands, Tim fumbles the ball into the ball launcher and throws it just past a copse of trees. Bruce watches Tim out of the corner of his eye, frowning slightly, but any concern that Tim should feel at that is distant at best.

“Hey, buddy. How are you doing? Are you cold?” Taking a few steps over to Tim, Bruce runs a hand through Tim’s hair before taking one of Tim’s hands in his own. His frown deepens, brow creasing in concern. Bruce envelops Tim’s other hand so his large, warm hands are wrapped around both of Tim’s. “Do you want gloves?” he asks gently.

Tim shrugs. “I’m fine.”

This does not appear to assuage Bruce’s concern. “Your hands are pretty cold, Tim. Here, I think I have some gloves in my coat pocket-- ah, there we go. They might be a little big on you, but let’s try to keep your hands warm, okay?” Bruce kneels in front of Tim and carefully tugs a glove onto each of Tim’s hands. They’re made for a full-grown, so they’re far too big for him, but the insides are lined with some sort of extremely soft faux fur.

Tim stares at his hands and wiggles his fingers. There are _hands_ in front of him and he can’t feel them that well, but they respond to his commands. Sort of, and with a lag time.

As Tim stares at the gloved hands, Bruce presses the back of his hand to Tim’s forehead and then his cheek. “How about we stay out here for a few more minutes and then go back inside?”

“Okay,” Tim mumbles.

Bruce kisses Tim’s temple before standing back up and running a gentle hand through Tim’s hair. It’s kind of nice, even if he can’t really feel it. Ace returns with his ball in his mouth and drops it in front of Tim again.

“Why don’t you do the honors?” Bruce says, gesturing at the ball.

Tim nods and flings the ball once more with the ball launcher. The next few minutes of Ace running back and forth, chasing and retrieving, pass in a blur, and then Bruce is patting Tim’s shoulder and telling him that it’s time to go inside.

He stands up slowly, only half-paying attention to the stiff muscles and chill that’s seeped into the body that’s not quite his. Bruce takes Tim’s hand again as they walk inside with Ace trotting along beside them. Tim drifts along as Bruce herds him into his room. With a gentle hand on his shoulder, he nudges Tim into taking a seat on his bed while Bruce kneels to pull off Tim’s shoes for him.

“There you go, buddy,” Bruce says, setting Tim’s shoes next to the ajar door. “Do you need me to get you anything before I go?”

“No thank you,” Tim replies quietly, staring at his socked feet as he swings them.

Bruce nods before moving Tim’s water bottle from the desk to the nightstand. “Make sure to drink water, sport.” He carefully adjusts the blankets around Tim’s shoulders so he’s more securely cocooned before smoothing a hand over Tim’s hair. “Text me if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay,” Tim mumbles.

Bruce presses a kiss to the top of his head before finally letting Tim rest. He leaves the door ajar behind him without Tim even having to ask.

* * *

Tim is laying listlessly on his bed and staring at the ceiling when there’s a knock on his doorframe. “Yeah?” He lifts his head just a little to peer at the person standing just outside his room.

Jason takes a step inside. He looks-- tired. There are dark circles under his eyes and he’s wearing one of Bruce’s worn out hoodies. There’s a computer tucked under his arm and Ace is standing next to him, tail wagging slowly. “Hey,” he says. “B says that we both have to be around people. Are you chill with me hanging out in here? I won’t try to talk to you or touch you or anything. I just, I love Dick but if he tries to be enthusiastically cheerful at me again, I’m gonna puke.”

“That’s fine,” Tim replies, dropping his head back down.

“Cool. I’m just gonna--” Jason pads over to the door to the closet and flops down on the floor, setting his computer down next to him. Ace lays down on his side next to him and immediately closes his eyes.

For a moment, Tim just watches them as his brain slowly works on assembling thoughts. Then, decision made, he grabs his phone and water bottle before shuffling over to the closet. Jason glances up at Tim but doesn’t say anything as Tim opens the closet door and steps inside.

Ah, this is more like it. The closet is dark and quiet and has a stack of very soft blankets. He drags the blankets over to a spot next to the door and shoves them into a rough approximation of a blanket nest before curling up. A little bit of light leaks in from the slightly ajar door, but it’s nothing that he can’t tune out. It’s good-- it’s safe and there’s nobody here to look at him. Tim closes his eyes and simply drifts in the static to his head.

The door creaks open further and Tim opens his eyes just in time to see Ace flop down in front of him. His front half is in the closet, just close enough for Tim to reach him, while his rear legs and tail stick out of the door.

“I hope this is okay,” Jason says from the other side of the wall. “This way, we can share him.”

“No, this is good,” Tim murmurs, running a hand over Ace’s head.

After a few minutes, his eyes drift shut without him telling them to. He’s not quite in his body, but he’s wrapped in blankets and there’s a dog next to him. All he can do is just lay there and breathe. Before he knows it, exhaustion sneaks up on him and quietly drags him off to sleep.

* * *

Some time later, Tim opens his eyes. There’s something heavy on him and everything is dark. Why is everything dark?

Oh, he’s in the closet with a blanket nest. Ace is snoozing next to him and making cute little puppy snores. Tim absently scratches Ace’s head and sits up, yawning. His head feels kind of fuzzy and it’s still full of static, but he still feels better than before.

“You awake?” Jason asks from just outside the closet door.

Tim nods before remembering that Jason can’t see him. “Yeah. I just woke up.” He flops back down into the nest of blankets.

“You should drink some water. You were out for like 3 hours.”

Oh. Now that he thinks about it, his mouth is kind of dry. Tim takes a few swigs from his water bottle before capping it and setting it against the wall. “Thanks.”

“No problem, dude.”

They lapse back into a comfortable silence. Tim closes his eyes but just drifts instead of fully falling asleep.

There’s a knock on the door to Tim’s room. His mouth doesn’t want to cooperate with him to produce words, but Jason answers before Tim can attempt to.

“Oh hey, Alfred. Yeah, you can just set those down there. Thanks.”

Alfred’s footsteps disappear down the hallway before Jason says, “Well, dinner is here. Alfred made us mac and cheese with milkshakes for dessert. Want to eat in there? I can pass you your food.”

“I’ll eat in here.” Tim sits up and sticks his hands out of the closet. A moment later, a warm bowl and a cool glass land in his hands.

“Careful,” Jason warns as Tim retreats back into his blanket nest.

Luckily, the milkshake is in a big enough glass that he’s not in any danger of sloshing it everywhere. Tim leans against the wall and can only manage a few bites of the macaroni and cheese before he’s full. Food is just… eh. Everything tastes the same to him right now and he knows that the others will worry if he doesn’t eat enough, but it’s _hard._

He settles against the wall and mindlessly scrolls through his phone until he pulls up youtube. Tim turns down the volume on his phone and absently scratches behind Ace’s ears. Thinking is hard, but he can always switch his brain off for a bit and watch videos debunking viral food hacks. As Tim goes down the rabbit hole known as youtube, he picks up the milkshake and sips at it. It’s sweet and cold and he can’t stomach more than a little at a time, but hey, it’s food.

A text from Bruce pops up on Tim’s phone when he’s halfway through another video. Frowning, Tim opens it.

Bruce [01/01, 7:04 PM]: We’re going to do some stretches and light yoga downstairs at 7:30 tonight. I’d really like it if you joined us.

Bruce [01/01, 7:05 PM]: It will help build your bodily awareness. It’ll be good for your training.

Tim frowns at his phone. Moving sounds… bad, but if it’s for his training--

Tim [01/01, 7:06 PM]: Okay, I’ll come.

Bruce [01/01, 7:06 PM]: That’s good to hear. I’ll see you soon. :)

“Did Bruce text you?” Jason asks from the other side of the door.

“Yeah.”

“Are you going?”

“I think so.”

“All right.” A pause. “You should probably change into something that you can move more easily in. I’ll wait outside for you, okay?”

Tim crawls out of the closet, squinting at the light in his room. “Yeah, okay. That sounds good. Just let me--” He grabs the dishes with half-finished food and sets them on his desk so Ace won’t get to them.

Jason nods and ducks out of the room. “Want me to leave the door open?” he asks quietly.

“Yes, please,” Tim replies as he digs around for more comfortable clothes from a duffel bag. He grabs some sweatpants, basketball shorts, warm socks, and a t-shirt. There, perfect. He changes in the bathroom and makes sure to tuck his phone into his pocket before joining Jason in the hallway.

They walk downstairs and into the Batcave in relative silence, save for the quiet clicking of Ace’s claws on the floor. When they arrive, there’s some sort of gentle instrumental music playing on the cave’s speakers. The main area of the cave looks deserted, but Jason leads them over to the training area.

Bruce is already stretching out his legs on the mats in the corner, but he looks up and smiles when Jason and Tim walk in. “Hey, kids. Dick will be down in a few minutes, but I’m just getting started on a few stretches.”

Jason takes his place in the far corner of the mat while Tim stands there awkwardly, trying to figure out what to do.

“Tim, why don’t you come over here so I can show you a few good warmup stretches?” Bruce suggests.

Tim nods and shuffles over to Bruce, who starts to patiently lead him through a series of gentle stretches. His body, stiff and tense from days spent curled up and barely moving, protests at the stretches but it’s relatively easy to push it out of the fog of his head. Bruce occasionally gives him pointers, to straighten an elbow here or bend a knee there, all while keeping a watchful eye on him.

Soon enough, Dick bounds down the stairs. His hair is pulled back in a lavender scrunchie and he’s wearing an oversized blue sweatshirt and black leggings with the individual logos of each member of the Teen Titans running up the sides. “All right, are we ready to get started?” Dick asks, smiling.

“I think so,” Bruce replies. “We’ve all warmed up, so we’re ready to go whenever you are.”

“Let me see, you have my playlist on… yeah, I think we’re good to go. Great!” Dick claps and takes his place at the front of the room. “Normally, I have a script that I use when I’m leading my kiddos through a good stretching session, but I guess we don’t need to do that. You already know that my name is Dick Grayson and I already know more about some of your tendencies to chug milk directly from the carton than I’d really care to know, so. Let’s begin!”

He takes a seat on the mat and everyone else follows suit. Tim clumsily sits down, mirroring everyone else, as Dick announces, “We’ll start with balloon breaths. Everyone, let’s sit cross legged and put your hands on your stomach--”

With a clear, strong voice, Dick starts leading them through a series of light stretches and poses. Tim follows along as best as he can given that it feels like his entire body is floating an inch above where it should be. He closes his eyes as they fall into the lunge of the warrior II pose, arms spread out. His pose is kind of unsteady and and his body doesn’t quite feel there and his brain is still full of static and--

Oh, that’s the sensation of his butt hitting the mat as Tim wobbles and then topples over. He blinks in surprise-- he was standing up, and now he’s on the mat. Huh.

Bruce drops out of his stance to offer Tim a hand up. “How about you keep your eyes open from now on, okay? I don’t want you to fall and get injured.” Tim hums in reply and falls back into the pose, though he keeps his eyes open this time.

As they continue to move through a series of poses, Tim feels flashes of sensations-- real, actual sensations. The mat against his feet, a slight stretch in his shoulder. It’s still slightly muffled but it’s like something reached through the fog and brushed against him, just for a moment.

“All right, and let’s walk out our downward dog and then go into child’s pose,” Dick instructs.

Tim glances up at everyone around him and mirrors their pose with his knees tucked under him and his arms stretched out in front of him. He presses his forehead to the mat and stays in the pose for a few seconds. His breath reflects off the mat, warming his face, and-- it’s warm.

It’s _warm_ and Tim can feel it, can feel the stretch in his shoulders and the slightly sticky mat touching his forehead. For the first time that day, Tim can actually feel his body. The fog in his head clears, only for a tangled mess of emotion best described as Bad to take his place.

Tim sucks in a breath and he can feel the air in his lungs, but there’s a thunderstorm in his head now and he just-- he can’t. He can’t stop it. He can’t stop the tears that prick at his eyes or the tight feeling in his chest, so he presses his forehead more firmly against the mat and tries to be quiet.

(After all of these years, Tim is very good at crying quietly.)

Ace, however, has different plans. A wet nose nudges Tim’s cheek and he starts crying harder even as Ace starts nosing him more insistently. He’s here, in his body, and he’s at Wayne Manor, and his parents left him. They locked him in his room and got in their car and drove away and-- and--

“Hey, Timmy,” Bruce says gently directly to Tim’s right. “I’m here, sweetheart. I want to help you figure out what’s wrong.”

Tim sits up and takes a moment to stare at his hands. And they’re _his_ hands, he feels them and they respond accordingly when he tries to wiggle them. He’s back, he’s back, he’s back-- and his head is full of _everything_ and it all feels bad, why does it feel so _bad_ \--

“Tim?” Now Bruce sounds a little concerned.

Tim looks up at Bruce through his tears. “I--” his voice cracks.

There’s a split-second pause where Tim and Bruce just stare at each other, one of Bruce’s hands outstretched in a silent question, before Tim launches himself at Bruce.

He throws his arms around Bruce’s neck and presses himself into Bruce’s chest and just _clings_. What was previously just quiet tears almost instantly morphs into full-out sobbing as Tim buries his face in Bruce’s shoulder. Without missing a beat, Bruce’s arms wrap around Tim and he tucks Tim’s head under his chin. They’re a messy tangle of limbs and Tim’s bony limbs. He’s probably kneeing Bruce in the ribs but all that matters right now is that Bruce is here. He’s _here._

“You’re here,” Tim gasps between sobs. “You’re here, you’re here, you’re here--”

“I’m here,” Bruce replies, rocking slightly as he rubs Tim’s back. “I’m here, sweetheart, and I’m not leaving.”

Tim sucks in air and desperately tangles his fingers in the fabric of Bruce’s shirt. “They _left_ ,” he whispers. It feels like his heart is splitting in two from all of the feelings inside him that only decided to make themselves known a minute ago. “I tried-- I tried to be good, and they still-- they _left_ me, Bruce. _They left me_.”

Bruce kisses the top of Tim’s head. “You don’t need to be good for us to love you, Timmy. We love you for _you_ , not for how good you can be.”

“But-- why?” Tim asks, face wet with tears.

There’s a moment where Bruce pauses and looks terribly, impossibly sad. Then the expression vanishes and Bruce smiles gently at him. “Because no matter what you do, we will always love you.”

“My parents-- they love me,” Tim chokes out, “They love me, but they _left me_.”

Bruce strokes Tim’s hair and pulls him closer, tucking him against his chest. “They shouldn’t have done that.”

Tim lets out another sob, clinging to Bruce like a koala, and then says, “They-- they _locked me in_. I was in there for _days_ , and I never even saw them, they just--”

“They what,” Jason says flatly, eyes dark. He’s moved from his previous spot in the corner to stand ten feet away from Bruce.

“Dick, could you please--” Bruce tries, but Jason interrupts him.

“They locked him in his room? For _days_?” Jason shouts, hands clenched into fists. He looks almost as distraught as Tim feels.

Tim jumps at the noise and curls into Bruce, who absently smooths a hand over his hair.

“Jason,” Bruce says, calm but firm. “I understand that you’re upset, but I need you to please go upstairs. Having you and Tim next to each other right now is going to create a vicious cycle and I really, really want both of you to feel okay. Can you count to ten in Mandarin for me?”

“In Mandarin?” Jason frowns, but closes his eyes with obvious effort. “Fine. Yī. Èr. Sān….” Fists still clenched, he slowly counts to ten before opening his eyes. Without waiting for Bruce to say anything, he says, “I’m going to find Alfred,” before practically sprinting up the stairs.

“Can you take Ace?” Bruce asks Dick.

Dick nods and they exchange a meaningful look before he pats his thigh. “Ace, come!” Ace stands up and trots over to Dick, and the two of them head up the stairs after Jason. Without them, the cave is quiet save for Dick’s quiet music pouring through the speakers, the frantic sound of Tim’s breathing, and the rushed beat of his heart.

With his arms still wrapped around Tim, Bruce shifts so he’s sitting cross-legged with Tim still attached to him like velcro. He gently runs a hand through Tim’s hair, lightly scratching at his scalp. It’s really nice. For a moment, Tim just leans his head into Bruce’s hand and tries to breathe.

“You’re okay, buddy. I’ve got you,” Bruce says gently.

Tim’s hands tighten around the fistfuls of fabric. “I-- I’m--” he tries to speak, but the words just won’t come.

One of Bruce’s hands slides to the middle of Tim’s back, right between his shoulder blades. “Take your time, sweetheart. Focus on breathing. I’ll be here.”

Tim nods around the lump in his throat and presses his forehead against Bruce’s chest as tears leak from his eyes. Finally, he croaks, “Jason.”

“What about Jason?”

“He’s angry,” Tim mumbles into Bruce’s shirt.

The hand keeps running through his hair. “He is,” Bruce agrees.

Peeling his face off of Bruce’s chest just enough to watch his face, Tim quietly asks, “I don’t… why? I mean, I just--”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bruce murmurs sadly. “He’s mad because your parents shouldn’t have done that to you. That wasn’t an okay thing to do to anyone, let alone a child.”

Tim glances away, gnawing at his lip. “I’m not a child.” His fingers twist in the fabric of Bruce’s shirt. “I’m not-- I don’t need to be babied.”

Bruce’s face softens. “You’re a very smart and capable person, honey. You’ve been very good at taking care of yourself and I am so, so proud of you. But it’s okay to need or want someone else to take care of you for a while. You’re thirteen, Tim. Wanting or needing help doesn’t mean that you’re a bad person or a baby.”

Tim wipes at his eyes with his sleeve. It comes away wet. “But I… I don’t want to make other people clean up my messes.”

A little line appears between Bruce’s brows. “Sometimes we need help handling things, and that’s okay.”

“My parents--” he chokes out a sob and tries again. “My parents, they said-- Dad said that they’re sick of cleaning up after me, and I keep putting myself in danger, and then-- and then, and then, he--” One of his hands rises to touch his cheek where his father struck him several nights ago.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bruce says sadly, rubbing Tim’s back.

Tim makes a noise and leans forward until his forehead is touching Bruce’s collarbone. “I said _sorry_. I was trying to be good and I said sorry and they...” He squeezes his eyes shut. “It-- I wasn’t good enough, but I was trying, I was _trying,_ ” he sobs. “And Dad.. he was so angry and Mom was angry, but I didn’t mean to-- to do dangerous things, or to undermine them, or be bad _._ I just. I was _trying._ ”

“I know,” Bruce murmurs. “You were trying really hard, buddy. What they did to you wasn’t okay.”

“I--” And then the floodgate of Tim’s tears opens yet again and he’s full-out sobbing into Bruce’s shirt.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’m here,” Bruce soothes, rubbing Tim’s back. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Holding onto Bruce like his life depended on it, Tim cries until his eyes hurt and his nose feels stuffed and he hits the limit of the amount of tears that the human body can contain. Sniffling, Tim presses his forehead into Bruce’s chest and gulps down air in ragged breaths.

“There you go,” Bruce murmurs. “You’re all right. I’ve got you.”

Tim hiccups and Bruce rubs his back. They sit in silence for a minute as Tim focuses on breathing and the feeling of Bruce’s hand between his shoulder blades. Then, Bruce says, “How are you feeling? How’s your head?”

Tim half-shrugs. “I dunno,” he mumbles.

Bruce kisses the top of his head. “That’s all right. I think we should get you some water or maybe an energy drink. I don’t want you to get a dehydration headache.”

“All right,” he whispers into Bruce’s shirt. Fingers twisting in the now-wet fabric, he quietly asks, “Are you going to leave?”

A comforting hand settles between his shoulder blades, fingers splayed. “I’m not leaving you, sweetie. How about I carry you with me?”

“...but aren’t I heavy? I don’t--” Pausing, Tim chews on his lip before saying, “I don’t want to make you go out of your way, or anything.”

Bruce smiles. “I’m the Batman. I think I can manage carrying one baby bird,” he replies easily. “All right, hang on. I’m going to stand up.”

Tim throws his arms around Bruce’s neck and clings as Bruce stands up and heads over to the fridge labeled, _FOOD FOR HUMANS_. In smaller, shakier handwriting, it also says, _and Clarks_. He opens the door one-handed and grabs two of their special energy drinks before closing the fridge with his hip. With the drinks clutched in one hand, Bruce walks over to the large, extremely comfortable couch off to the side of the cave. He sets Tim down on a cushion and hands him one of the drinks. It’s one of Alfred’s special concoctions and is in a metal thermos with a picture of a bat on it.

“Drink as much of this as you can manage,” Bruce tells him. “You’re definitely dehydrated and you’ll feel even worse if you get a headache.”

Tim nods and obediently takes a few sips. It’s pretty good-- it tastes oddly like raspberry lemonade. After a minute, he puts the cap back on the bottle and sets it on the ground before glancing at Bruce out of the corner of his eye. Now that he’s not actively crying anymore, is he allowed to lean against him? Can he ask for a hug? He doesn’t need to be coddled like a baby, but man, a hug sounds nice.

Bruce catches him looking and smiles, spreading his arms in invitation. “Come here, you look like you could use more hugs.”

Hesitating, Tim looks up at Bruce with wide eyes, only to be reeled in a moment later. He lets Bruce pull him into his lap and wrap his arms around him like he’s a little kid. After a moment, Tim relaxes just a little and tucks his forehead into the crook of Bruce’s neck.

“Did you know,” Bruce says calmly as he starts running one hand through Tim’s hair, “That physical contact releases oxytocin.”

“What does oxytocin do?” Tim asks as Bruce grabs a blanket and tosses it over both of them.

“It reduces your cortisol levels, among other things,” Bruce replies as he adjusts the blanket until it’s fully draped around Tim. “And I want you to feel less stressed, and to feel safe and loved. That’s why I’m hugging you.”

Frowning a little, Tim glances up at Bruce. It feels like there’s some hidden point or trick to his explanation, but Tim’s brain feels like it just ran a marathon. Piecing together hidden meanings isn’t going to happen right now. Instead, Tim rests his cheek against Bruce’s chest so he can feel the gentle rumble of his voice.

“Cuddling also helps build new neural circuits. Those are little pathways in your brain that form a big network. When a neural circuit is given a certain signal, then they’ll automatically perform the thing that it’s been trained to do. Think of it as having someone on speed dial versus having to manually type in their phone number. You can still do it, but it takes more effort.”

Tim nods, still frowning. “Okay, but what is cuddling training my brain to do?”

“A few things. For one, it’s connecting your inside world to the outside world. It also builds non-verbal memories and trains your brain to be happy and release oxytocin until you’ve trained it enough that your brain can do it by itself.”

“Huh,” Tim says.

Bruce smiles. “Pretty cool, right?”

“Brains are weird.”

Laughing, Bruce leans back into the couch. “That is very true.”

They stay like that for a while, with Tim wrapped in a sturdy, warm hug as Bruce pets his hair. Eventually, though, Tim leans away and sits up.

“I think,” he says, rubbing at his eyes, “that I am good now.”

Bruce raises his eyebrow, watching Tim. “Okay. Are you sure?”

“Very much so,” Tim replies. “I don’t want to monopolize your whole evening or anything. I’m sure that you have work to get to, or things to do, or something important that needs looking at. You know. Stuff.”

Face neutral, Bruce tilts his head. After a heartbeat of having Bruce’s terrifyingly knowledgeable eyes boring straight into Tim’s very soul, Bruce nods. “How about you sit next to me while I’m on the Batcomputer?”

Tim frowns, clutching his blankets tighter around his shoulder. “Are you sure? I don’t want to distract you or get in the way or anything.”

“I’m very sure. I like having you around, chum,” Bruce replies easily. Tim blinks up at Bruce, unsure of what to make of that, but Bruce only smiles at him and pats his shoulder. “Want to be carried over?”

Scrunching up his nose, Tim shakes his head. “I can walk,” he points out just a little bit indignantly.

Just to prove his point, he stands up and picks up his energy drink from the ground. With the edge of the blanket trailing on the ground behind him, Tim musters what scraps of his dignity remain and makes his way over to the Batcomputer. He pulls one of the rolling chairs over and plops into it, staring at Bruce almost in challenge.

Bruce takes a seat next to him. As he logs into the Batcomputer, he glances over at Tim. “So, how about we go over some of the basics of reading police files?”

“You don’t need to spend time teaching me if you have cases to solve,” Tim replies immediately.

“Well, I want to teach you,” Bruce says patiently, elbows resting on the chair’s armrests and fingers steepled. “Besides, going over the basics will help me remind myself of small details to pay attention to, such as the time of when the report was filed in relation to the end of the officer’s shift. If a report has a lot written but gives very few relevant details and the case in question feels off, the officer who filed it was likely using overtime to write it. They get paid time and a half, so officers are effectively incentivized to stay late to file a report or speak with officials. It doesn’t usually lead to helpful or positive results, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” Tim says. “Huh. That makes sense.”

With a few clicks, Bruce pulls up a police report. “There’s even more to it than that. Come a little closer, do you see that time stamp there?--”

* * *

They spend maybe an hour going over how to read police files and interpret evidence. Bruce points out mistakes in how suspects were fingerprinted and carefully explains the chain of custody and how to bag evidence. Tim is already familiar with the general rules of admissibility of evidence gathered by vigilantes, but he nods along anyways when Bruce goes over it. Gotham’s Shadow might know some of the rules, but it would be a little suspicious if Tim revealed too much of his Jeffrey Anderson knowledge.

Soon enough, Tim’s eyelids start to droop and it gets harder to focus on what Bruce is saying. He wants to try to learn, but Bruce just smiles at him and smooths a hand over his hair.

“Why don’t we stop here for tonight? I’m going to keep working for a bit, but you’re welcome to stay here and keep me company. What do you think?”

Tim nods. “I’ll stay,” he says, stifling a yawn.

“All right.” The corners of Bruce’s eyes crinkle as he pats Tim’s shoulder. “Let me know if you have any questions about what I’m doing, sport.”

“I will.”

As the minutes drag on, Tim blinks sleepily up at the screen as his head droops to the side. Eventually, his eyes close and his head comes into contact with the side of the chair. Tim sighs and leans against it, only for Bruce to chuckle and the chair to shake.

Alarmed, Tim opens his eyes and realizes that he was learning against Bruce’s arm. “Oh.” Mildly mortified, he immediately sits up straight. “Sorry.”

“Tim,” Bruce says, eyes twinkling, “You are more than welcome to use me as a pillow. It happens all the time with Dick and Jason.”

“But then you won’t be able to type with that hand,” Tim protests.

“I can promise you that I have lots of practice typing when someone is falling asleep on me,” Bruce replies. His face softens and he places a gentle hand on Tim’s shoulder. “It’s all right, buddy. You’ve had a very long day. If something bothers me, then I’ll tell you. Okay?”

“Okay,” Tim replies hesitantly, carefully searching Bruce’s face for any hint of a trick and finding none.

With one hand, Bruce cups the back of Tim’s head and carefully guides him so that his head is resting on Bruce’s shoulder again. Hardly breathing, Tim watches as Bruce starts typing an email to someone in the Justice League. After a minute of Bruce calmly working, Tim carefully pulls his blankets securely up to his chin so as to not disturb Bruce.

It doesn’t take long for sheer exhaustion to win out again. Tim’s eyelids droop before his eyes close completely. At this point, he’s too tired to be self-conscious. The chair is comfortable and the blankets are warm and he can hear the rhythmic clacking of the Batcomputer’s keyboard. Like a raindrop sliding down a windowpane, Tim slips off to sleep.

* * *

Tim is wrapped in blankets. There’s a weird sort of rhythmic rocking motion, and it takes him a moment to realize that he’s being carried. Oh. Wait, what?

The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Bruce’s old sweatshirt. Frowning, Tim cranes his head to take a look around. They’re in his bedroom and Bruce is clutching Tim to his chest as he leans over to pick up the stuffed dog from its perch on the armchair.

“Mmmf,” Tim says instead of real words.

Bruce glances down at him and smiles, tucking the dog into the mass of blankets. “Hey, chum. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. Want me to put you down?” Tim nods a little and Bruce sets him down on his feet, hands hovering until Tim straightens up on wobbly legs.

“I think it’s about time for you to get to bed. You’ve had a long day,” Bruce says gently.

Tim makes a noise of semi-agreement and rubs at his eyes. “Okay.”

“If it would help you feel safer, you can sleep in my room again. Jason is already there,” Bruce offers.

Shaking his head, Tim stifles a yawn. “I appreciate how you’ve opened your home to me. But I am-- fine. I’m not a baby and I don’t need to be supervised the whole night.”

Eyes searching Tim’s face, Bruce finally nods. “All right. But just so you know, I’m going to check in on you a few times overnight to make sure that you’re doing all right, okay? You’ve been through a lot over the past few days.”

“Okay,” Tim agrees. Anything to escape this conversation as quickly as possible. “It won’t be necessary because I’m good, but. Okay.”

“Do you need anything before I go?” Bruce asks gently, his brow slightly furrowed. “Some water? Ace?”

“Nope, I’m okay. Thank you,” Tim replies. “Good night, Bruce.”

Brow still crinkled in concern, Bruce nods. “Good night, buddy,” he replies before finally walking out of Tim’s room.

* * *

Everything was going so well, and then.

And then Tim woke up covered in sweat and gasping for air and had to curl into the ball because it was the only thing he could think to do. He barely even remembers what the nightmare was other than vague impressions of yelling and a tangled ball of fear-anger-desperation. Now, here he is, lying on his bed in the fetal position as he cries as quietly as he can.

Slowly, his crying subsides, leaving him with a wet face and short, gasping breaths. Grabbing his weighted blanket, Tim slides off his bed and takes a seat on the ground with his knees pulled up to his chest. The cold from the floor leeches into his butt and his feet, but at least it helps shake off the lingering fog of the nightmare. Tim pulls his blanket around his shoulders and presses his forehead against his knees.

The door is slightly ajar, just like he left it before he went to bed. Tim grips his knees and focuses on the golden glow of the hallway lights.

A dark shape blots out part of the light and Tim jolts, scrambling onto his feet out of sheer instinct. He stares at the figure, frozen like a deer in headlights, and then--

“Tim?” Bruce asks gently. “Hey, buddy, it’s okay. It’s just me.”

He steps into the room and Tim realizes that he’s standing on the balls of his feet, ready to sprint. There’s no way that he could outrun the Batman, and besides, who knows how Bruce would react to Tim trying to bolt? So Tim forces himself to settle flat-footed on the ground.

He swallows, fingers tangled in his blankets. “Bruce,” he forces out. “Um. Hi.”

“I was just coming to check on you. Are you all right?” His brow is creased in concern.

Tim nods, perhaps a little too enthusiastically to be convincing. “Yep, yeah, I’m fine,” he says quickly, even though his skin is cold and clammy and he kind of wants to scream but also hide for some reason.

The worried look on Bruce’s face doesn’t disappear as he moves closer, raising a hand to press it against Tim’s sweaty forehead. “Are you sure, honey? You look like you’ve been crying.”

Apparently those are the magic words because Tim starts tearing up again. “I’m fine,” he chokes out.

Bruce’s face softens. “Oh, buddy. It’s okay, come here.” He gently pulls Tim into a hug and runs a hand through his hair. Chest tight and head still churning, Tim just leans against Bruce and tries to speak around the lump in his throat.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry--” he chokes out, “Everything was fine, I don’t know what happened. I just-- I--” Tim makes a disgustingly pitiful sound and rubs at his eyes with the backs of his hands. “I don’t _know_.”

“Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” Bruce murmurs, sliding his hands onto Tim’s shoulders. “You’re allowed to be sad sometimes, or to feel bad and not know why. Feel whatever you need to feel, okay?”

He whines in distress a little in response but half-heartedly mumbles, “Okay.”

“Now,” Bruce says calmly, “I think it would be a good idea if you slept in the same room as one of us. You can sleep on my bed with Jason and I, or we can get you settled on the sofa with some blankets or bring in a cot for you. What do you think?”

“I don’t want to kick you off your own bed,” Tim hedges, not meeting Bruce’s eyes.

“My bed is ridiculously large. It could probably fit ten of me,” Bruce replies smoothly.

There’s a long pause and Tim shuffles his feet a little before, still not looking at Bruce, he mutters, “Okay. I’ll sleep in your room.”

Bruce nods and, in one smooth motion, scoops Tim into his arms. Tim squawks a little in protest but wraps his arms around Bruce’s neck anyways.

“Is this. Strictly necessary?” he asks, bewildered. “I mean, you know that you don’t _have_ to carry me, right?”

“I know,” Bruce replies as he grabs the stuffed dog from the armchair. He passes it to Tim before carefully leaning over to pick up his phone and charger, which he tucks into his pocket. “All right, let’s go.”

With Tim bundled in his arms, feet sticking out of the blanket, Bruce carries Tim down the hall. He nudges his bedroom door open with his hip before stepping inside and gently depositing Tim on the bed.

A lump of blankets rolls over and then Jason’s face pokes out. “Dad?” he mumbles groggily.

“It’s fine, Jay. Tim is here. You can go back to sleep,” Bruce murmurs, kissing Jason’s forehead. “I’ve got you.”

“‘kay, love you, g’night,” Jason says, half-asleep, before closing his eyes and conking out again.

Bruce grabs another blanket and drapes it over Tim. “Do you want to stay there or do you want me to move you somewhere else?”

“I’m good here,” Tim replies, pulling the blanket up to his chin. “Thanks.”

Bruce nods and crawls into the space between Jason and Tim. Still asleep, Jason leans closer to Bruce so his cheek is pressed against Bruce’s side. Smiling softly, Bruce wraps an arm around Jason to pull him closer before reaching out with one hand to run his fingers through Tim’s hair.

“Well, wake me up if you need anything,” Bruce says as he stifles a yawn and continues to pet Tim’s hair. “Good night, kiddo.”

“Good night,” Tim echoes, curling up under the blankets. Under the watchful eye of the golden light from the hallway, and with Bruce’s quiet snoring filling the room, Tim drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, [S](https://chocolateandsilver.tumblr.com/), and to [goldkirk](https://goldkirk.tumblr.com/) for their help!! <3
> 
> Thank you all for reading!! :D


	20. and i'll hold you close, i'll stay the course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim adjusts to permanently living at Wayne Manor, the Waynes storm ikea, and Bruce is an overprotective dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Walking the Wire by Imagine Dragons. 
> 
> "I can see u overthinking in the doc lmao" --S (my beta) as they watched me edit this chapter before posting it
> 
>  **CWs:** references to past abuse, non-serious illness

“I think it will help if we make sure that you stick to a consistent sleep schedule,” Bruce tells Tim at lunch the following day.

Tim frowns. “But I’ve been sleeping enough,” he points out.

“You have, which is good because your brain needs rest to recover. However, the key here is consistency,” Bruce replies calmly, taking another spoonful of the rich cheddar and broccoli soup that Alfred made. “It will help your head feel more normal.”

“Are you sure?” Tim asks, nudging a chunk of broccoli in his soup with a spoon.

“Very sure. It worked for Jason and Dick, plus it’s one of the first things recommended by all specialists who deal with children who have been through bad situations.”

Tim stares into his bowl. “All right, I guess.”

“How about we set alarms on your phone to remind you it’s time to start getting ready for bed or get up in the morning?” Bruce suggests.

 _What happens if I ignore the alarm or I don’t hear it?_ Tim wants to ask, but he doesn’t dare voice the questions dancing on his tongue. Instead, he takes out his phone. “What times should the alarms be at?” he asks instead.

* * *

Tim starts going to bed at eleven at night and waking up at eight. It’s not his favorite situation; he keeps waking up groggy. Bruce says that he can take as many naps as he wants, but that just feels weird. Sometimes Tim curls up in the closet with his phone, but it isn’t quite the same.

The early wake-up call is at least made tolerable by Bruce letting him help feed Ace in the morning and take him out for his morning walk. At least the chilly air outside helps him wake up. He can _feel_ it, most days, but sometimes the sensation of cold feels foggy and far away. It’s not usually as bad as the first day, but he’s still left drifting.

After Ace’s morning walk and a quick breakfast, Bruce usually coaxes Tim into joining him in the Batcave for some light morning stretches. By this point, Tim is usually partially awake, but he still accidentally falls onto his butt a few times when he loses his balance while trying to stand on one leg.

Of course, there are the times when his head is full of static and spiderwebs, and sparkling clear and real _sensation_ bursts through mid-stretch. He cries a few times and it feels kind of stupid, but Bruce just hugs him until he stops crying.

Bruce is keeping a closer eye on him than usual, always watching. It’s _weird_. Is he waiting for Tim to make a mistake? He hasn’t yelled at him yet, so maybe something is building up. Tim has never heard Bruce yell before, but he also was just a guest. Now he’s-- something more permanent. An emergency foster placement, Bruce says, but they’re working on the paperwork to let Bruce properly foster Tim for the long-term.

And, and-- Tim is just waiting for something to go wrong. For something to happen. It’s only been a few days, but he can’t keep being good forever, no matter what Bruce says about that not mattering. If it doesn’t matter, then why were his parents so insistent on it?

* * *

A few days after the shut-in incident, Tim steps into the den and hovers near the doorway. Bruce glances up from his laptop and smiles. “Hi, sport. What’s up?”

“Hi, Bruce. I, um….” Tim shuffles a little closer, picking at a piece of fuzz on his sleeve. “I was wondering about something.”

Bruce takes off his reading glasses and closes his laptop, setting it aside. “Oh? What is it?”

It’s somewhat daunting to have the full weight of Batman’s laser focus pointed directly at him. Resisting the urge to fidget, Tim glances up at Bruce. “When are you sending me back to my parents? I like staying here, I do, but I just-- I know they’ll make a fuss if I’m away for too long.”

Face softening, Bruce leans forward with his elbows braced on his knees. “Tim, sweetheart, I can’t, in good conscience, send you back there. Do you remember what I said a few nights ago about how you’re welcome to stay here forever?”

Tim nods a little. “I remember.”

“If you want to stay somewhere else, I can look into finding a foster family that you’d be happy with. But we love having you here, sport,” he says gently.

Tim’s knees feel weak. He drifts even closer to Bruce until he’s finally close enough to take a seat next to him on the couch. “I want to stay,” he whispers after a moment.

Bruce reaches over and gently squeezes Tim’s shoulder. “We’re happy to have you here, son.”

 _Son_. His eyes tear up a little bit. Blinking away tears, Tim takes a moment to make sure that his voice won’t crack before he asks, “What will happen to my parents?”

“CPP is looking into your case right now,” Bruce explains softly. “I’ve been told that the most likely outcome is that you’ll be permanently placed in my custody. They’ll also look into whether criminal charges can be brought against your parents.”

Tim’s eyes widen. “Criminal charges? I don’t want them to go to _jail_. What if-- what if the judge finds that I was just overreacting, or something? I don’t want to cause a fuss for nothing.”

“Honey, I can promise you that you weren’t overreacting,” Bruce replies, offering him a small smile. “If anything, you were underreacting. Okay?”

It doesn’t sound entirely right, but Tim nods anyways.

“In all likelihood, your parents won’t go to prison,” Bruce continues evenly. At least one of them is able to hold it together right now because Tim feels a little bit like crying again. “Unfortunately, they have access to very good lawyers. At the worst, they’ll have to pay a fine.”

Tim gnaws on his lip. “Okay,” he mumbles, eyes falling to the floor.

“And bud? Right now, the most important thing that you can do is to focus on healing yourself.”

Even without looking, Tim can feel Bruce watching him. He keeps staring at the floor, twisting the hem of his sweater between his hands.

Bruce’s voice softens. “You’ve been dealing with a lot and considering the circumstances, you’ve been doing a great job. I’m proud of you, Tim.”

Tim has too many feelings to put into words, so he just glances up at Bruce and nods. “Thank you,” he rasps with a surprisingly uneven voice. Standing up, he sinks his fingers into the soft material of his sweater’s sleeves. “I’m going to go play Minecraft with Jason. If that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay,” Bruce replies warmly. “Have fun, sport.”

Casting one last glance back at Bruce, Tim slips out of the study.

* * *

Jason slips through Tim’s open bedroom door and grins at him. “Bruce is taking us to ikea to pick out furniture for your room,” he announces.

“...what,” Tim says, laptop already reflexively closed.

“You can’t keep living in a glorified guest room forever, Timbo. We gotta spice it up a little, y’know? Add some pizzazz.” Jason wiggles his eyebrows. “You could get some posters or something. It’ll be fun.”

“Posters?” Tim wrinkles his nose. “They’ll either keep falling down or leave little holes in the wall.”

Jason shrugs. “So? It’s your room. We can just cover the holes if you change your mind later.”

Frowning, Tim hesitates.

“Also, Bruce said that it’s mandatory.”

With a sigh, Tim stands up. “Fine. Give me ten minutes to cover these up.” He gestures vaguely at his face. If Jason is bothered by the mention of the fading bruises, then he doesn’t show it. Instead, he nods and bounds down the hallway, presumably to tell Bruce that Tim agreed to the trip.

Thirty minutes later, Dick is flopping onto one of the display beds at ikea.

“Dick,” Bruce says patiently. He’s wearing old jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of aviator sunglasses in an attempt to keep a low profile.

“Bruce,” Dick replies, smirking as he tucks his arms behind his head.

“We are attempting to be discreet,” Bruce says.

Dick shrugs. “Yeah, and I haven’t tackled Jason yet. If I were you, I’d consider this a win.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Bruce lifts his head towards the ceiling and mutters something too quietly for Tim to hear. Then, he says, “All right,” and lets the matter drop, turning to Tim. “Let’s take a look around and see if you find anything you like.”

Over the course of the next hour, several things happen. Bruce rescues an errant two year old who wandered away from her very worried parents.

Dick and Jason find their way into one of the model kitchens. Jason takes one look at Dick and quotes, “The math thing isn’t the problem. The night shift is keeping you and Kevin apart. You two just need to bone."

Eyes glittering, Dick barely suppresses a grin as he cocks his head. “What did you say?”

Tim watches, horrified, as Jason repeats, “I said you two need to bone.”

Alfred looks over some tea towels, unaffected, while Bruce appears like he’s trying very hard to ignore their antics.

“How dare you, Detective Diaz. I am your _superior officer_!” Dick shouts.

Tim freezes. They’re both smiling, but Dick is yelling and he sounds mad. Even if Dick is technically barely an adult, Tim’s rabbit-quick heart doesn’t hear the difference. As stealthily as he can manage, he ducks into the next model kitchen so he’s hidden from them.

“ _BONE_!” Dick yells.

“Richard,” Bruce says calmly. Tim doesn’t dare move. “My dear child, my beloved firstborn. Please don’t get us kicked out of ikea. Again.”

Dick laughs, but Tim only barely relaxes. “All right, all right, I’ll stop. We don’t want to scandalize the children.”

Tim ducks out of the model kitchen and sneaks into the dining area. After running around Gotham and tiptoeing around Drake Manor for so many years, Tim is very good at sneaking. If the Bats notice him, they don’t say anything. Careful to stay out of sight, Tim walks around the corner and stares at all of the dining tables.

Who knew that so many different types of dining tables existed? His parents probably have strong opinions on which types are best. They have strong opinions about a lot of things.

He meanders through the dining section and around the extremely confusing floor layout until his phone rings only a few minutes later. The caller ID says _Bruce Wayne_. Oh no, did Tim do something wrong?

Tim answers the call and holds his phone up to his ear. “Hello?”

“Tim, where did you go? I don’t see you,” Bruce says, voice turned tinny by the phone’s speaker.

“Oh, uh, I walked ahead a bit.” He starts playing with the hem of his shirt, rolling the hem between his fingers. “Why?”

“I got worried about you, bud,” Bruce replies evenly. “Can you tell me some of the landmarks around you?”

“Um. There’s a bright green table-- like, a really hideous Shrek green. A sign that says _dining_ and what I think is the Swedish translation…”

“I see you. Hang on, I’ll be there in a second.”

Bruce hangs up and Tim is left standing there as he stares at his phone, unsure what just happened. Mere moments later, Bruce jogs into view. He looks-- not nervous, but perhaps not as unruffled as usual.

“There you are,” Bruce says, squeezing Tim’s shoulder gently. “I was worried for a second.”

Tim frowns. “Why? I was right here.”

Smiling, Bruce keeps his hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I like knowing where everyone is. It makes me feel better, especially considering everything that happened during your field trip back in December.”

“I’m a kidnapping risk,” Tim says, nodding. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have run off like that.”

“It’s all right, Tim. It’s true that we tend to be at risk for kidnappings, but I also like keeping an eye on you because I want to make sure that you’re doing okay.”

Just then, Dick sprints behind Bruce. “The throw pillows are up ahead!” he shouts over his shoulder.

Bruce hardly blinks. “You don’t have to stay tethered to our sides, but maybe let one of us know where you’re going in the future to avoid any heart attacks?”

“Okay,” Tim agrees. If these are the rules, then he’ll follow them.

Jason jogs past with Alfred trailing behind him at a normal walking pace. “Bruce, I’m gonna go look at the blankets,” he says, eyes bright.

Bruce smiles. “More blankets for your dragon hoard?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jason hisses, “Always, B, you know me.”

They all round the corner into the bedrooms section. Sure enough, there’s an entire corner dedicated to throw pillows and Dick is gleefully touching every single one. Jason makes a beeline for the blankets and starts carefully inspecting them.

Alfred shoots Bruce a dry look. “I’ll go supervise,” he says before pushing their shopping cart after Jason.

Bruce turns to Tim. “I guess that leaves us to check out the duvets,” he says with a smile.

The two of them walk over to what is, quite frankly, a terrifyingly large selection of duvet covers. Tim stares at the sea of patterns in front of him. And they want him to choose one? He doesn’t know the first thing about interior design. There are things that go together, he’s sure, but his parents designed the entire house from the kitchen to his bedroom. Tim knows about color theory and the composition of photos, but a bedroom isn’t a photograph. It’s three dimensional and there are real textures to touch, not just images of them, and he has to _live there_. What if he chooses the wrong thing?

Bruce seems to catch Tim’s indecision and lightly pats his back. “How about we start by walking around and seeing if anything stands out to you?” he suggests gently.

Tim nods, and so they circle around the duvets. He tries to look at them all and figure out which one he’d like, but-- he’s trying, he swears, but there are _so many_. By the time they get back to where they started, Tim hasn’t found anything that he likes. It’s all lost in a sea of _twin, full, queen, king, machine washable_ , and an assortment of colors that would make a rainbow jealous.

By then, Dick, Jason, and Alfred have returned from their various adventures. Jason dumps what looks like four entire blankets into the cart, but Bruce remains unfazed. Dick adds two different fluffy throw pillows and a large stuffed dog to the cart, but nobody comments on that either.

(His parents would say that Dick is far too old for silly childish things like stuffed animals. They’d say that Tim is too old for them too. They’re not physically here right now, but Tim can hear their voices in his head all the same.)

“Need some help?” Jason asks. “We can look for fun duvets and bring back the ones that you might like.”

“Sure?” Tim says.

Dick beams and bounds into the duvet section. “We won’t let you down!”

Alfred follows them, presumably to minimize any property damage that could result from their enthusiasm. Tim is left standing awkwardly next to Bruce until Jason comes darting back with several duvets, still in their flexible plastic containers, cradled in his arms.

“All right, here are a few options. I’m just pulling some artsy looking stuff that looks neat. I have no idea what Dick is doing, but I think he’s going for fun colors. Anyways, behold.” Jason tilts his arms so Tim can clearly see each option.

There’s one with small black and white flowers and one with big, bright flowers and birds, but those ones doesn’t feel like the correct choice. One is too colorful and the other is too… girly. Another one has blue flowers-- again with the flowers! His parents would kill him if his bed was covered in flowers.

Tim stares at them and gnaws at his lip, trying to figure out a way to politely turn down the options. However, before he can open his mouth, Jason asks, “If none of them stands out to you, I’ll go put them back.”

“Sorry,” Tim says reflexively.

“‘s all good,” Jason replies, heading back into the maze of bedding.

Dick is next, arms full of a, frankly, wild assortment of colors. “Timmy, look!” he chirps, holding out his selection.

The next fifteen minutes pass in much the same manner. Colors and patterns fly in front of Tim: the bright yellow zigzags and the rainbow spots are both too childish, several of the duvets with dark backgrounds and bright flowers are too loud, let alone too flowery, and a good chunk of the options they bring to him have flowers or butterflies or are too pink. And Tim-- he’s a boy, okay, so he can’t be seen with butterflies or pink flowers or roses on his covers. There are rules, he knows there are. It would be-- _shameful_. He can’t tell if the Waynes are trying to trick him or what, but Tim can’t-- he just _can’t_ , okay.

He feels bad about not liking any of the options that they present him with, but at least they don’t make him outright say that he doesn’t like something. After all, he doesn’t want to insult their taste or anything. Instead, everything is whisked back to the shelves after a good thirty seconds of Tim staring at them and trying to figure out which one is the lesser evil.

Finally, Alfred presents Tim with a white duvet that looks like someone spilled their watercolors on it in great blue-gray stripes across it. It’s-- actually not bad. He can’t find anything that he overtly dislikes about it other than it not being the plain cream that his parents tend to prefer.

“Shall I take it back?” Alfred asks patiently as Tim stares at it, deciding.

“No, I--” Tim opens his mouth and then closes it before carefully taking it from Alfred’s outstretched hands. It’s pretty and it seems like a safe choice. And he _likes_ it, mostly, and he feels really bad making everyone spend so long just trying to find him a stupid duvet when his current plain cream-colored one is perfectly fine. “This one is good.”

Bruce tilts his head slightly, watching. “Are you sure?”

Tim nods and clutches the flexible plastic container to his chest. “Yeah.”

“You have a good eye for colors, bud.” Smiling, Bruce pats Tim’s back before looking up at Alfred. “In that case, I think we have a winner.” Raising his voice, he calls, “Dick, Jason! We found one!”

The boys come tumbling out from the maze of shelves, grinning. “Oh, you found one?” Jason asks as Dick barrels forward to inspect it.

“Good choice!” Dick says, ruffling Tim’s hair.

Tim blinks. “Uh. Thanks?”

“We gotta get you some blankets to go with it,” Jason declares, nodding seriously.

“And pillows,” Dick adds.

“Those too. Here, Timberly, I can show you some blankets I saw earlier that you might like--”

* * *

Three hours and several Swedish meatballs later, they finally get back to Wayne Manor and begin carrying all of Tim’s new things up to his room. In a chaotic rush of activity, Alfred starts remaking Tim’s bed with fresh sheets-- the new ones that he was pressured into buying need to be washed first-- as Dick and Jason toss Tim’s new blankets and pillows onto his armchairs and desk to keep them off the floor.

Brow furrowed in concentration, Bruce looks over the instructions for Tim’s new dresser and bookshelf. “Does anyone have my reading glasses?” he asks the room at large.

Jason darts over and hands him a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. “Here ya go.” Turning to Tim, he winks. “One of Robin’s duties,” he explains.

At a loss for words, Tim can only nod.

“Hey, Timbo, we should start clearing out your old dresser so we can put everything in your new one,” Dick calls over.

“That is, once Bruce actually _builds it_ ,” Jason grumbles as he tries to peer at the instructions over Bruce’s shoulder. “Seriously, B, let me take a look--”

“Uh,” Tim says, hands suddenly sweaty. All he can see is his parents tearing through his dresser and searching his desk for-- something, anything. He forces himself to blink, and breathe, before he replies, “That’s fine, I can do it myself.”

He walks over to the dresser and Dick ruffles his hair before bouncing over to help Alfred set Tim’s new duvet on his bed. Ace, who was previously sprawled in the corner and absolutely unaffected by the chaos like the champion he is, decides that now is a good moment to stand up and shove his head under Tim’s hand. Tim takes a deep breath and scratch behind Ace’s ears as he regards his old dresser.

Right, he can do this. It’s just changing, nothing is being taken away. Tim sighs and starts taking out his neatly folded pants and placing them in a stack on the floor. All the while, he surreptitiously watches the Waynes. They haven’t gone through his things yet, but Tim still keeps an eye on them, just in case.

Between Bruce and Jason, they manage to assemble his new dresser in thirty minutes and with only a little swearing. Tim starts transferring his clothes into the new dresser while they get started on his bookcase. Meanwhile, Dick opens the windows and stands on the windowsill so he can replace the old plain white curtains with Tim’s new ones. Alfred starts sweeping the floor and-- having so many people in his room is still a lot, but Tim scratches Ace’s head and tries to remember to breathe.

It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. There’s no need to make mountains out of molehills. They’re just _people_ , it’s not a big deal.

At long last, they’re done. Tim’s new bookshelf is moved into place and filled with his books and a few trinkets that he’s pretty sure either Jason or Dick grabbed for him. His room is clean and his pillows are fluffed. Sunlight spills in from the open curtains, illuminating the room.

Tim can barely keep himself from sighing in relief when Bruce claps his hands and says, “I think we should give Tim some time to settle in.”

And then everyone is filing out of his room, and Tim is left alone except for Ace napping in the sunlight shining onto the middle of his bed.

Speaking of his bed… wait a second, that’s the big, yellow stuffed dog that Dick picked up at ikea. Did he sneak it onto Tim’s bed? He must have because it’s sitting right next to the smaller stuffed dog that Dick previously gave him. Frowning slightly, Tim moves them both onto the armchair. He’s not a baby, after all. He’s too old for stuffed animals.

Tim sighs. He’ll have to give those back to Dick later, but first, he is _exhausted_. The door to his room is still slightly ajar, so someone could easily come into his room and find him napping, but Tim is just too tired to care. Flopping onto his bed, he curls up next to Ace before closing his eyes and falling asleep in the sunshine.

* * *

All good things must come to an end, and so winter break ends and classes resume the following week. Bruce takes Tim aside a few days beforehand and sits down with him in the den.

“I know that classes are starting again soon, but I don’t want you to worry about school or your grades right now,” he says, lightly squeezing Tim’s shoulder. “We’re letting you go back to school so things can feel normal for you again and so you can have a routine again. CPP has already talked to your guidance counselor--”

Tim opens his mouth to protest, but Bruce quickly adds, “--which is required by law. They didn’t give specifics other than you’ve been removed from your parents’ home and temporarily placed with me. I’ve been working with your guidance counselor to make sure that all of your teachers are aware that you may need some leeway right now.”

“But I don’t need extra help,” Tim protests. “I was doing fine in school. I don’t see why we need to change anything now. Besides, what if they mention it on college recommendation letters or something? It would reflect poorly on me.”

Bruce frowns slightly. “Tim, buddy, you’re a freshman in high school. Getting a few bad grades won’t matter to colleges, nor will it mean that you’re a bad person. If you’re really set on college, we’ll figure out a way to make it happen for you, but know that you’ll have plenty of time to build up your résumé in the next few years. You don’t need to worry about that right now.”

Tim stares at the floor and sets his jaw. “All right,” he agrees, lying smoothly. Why can’t this conversation just be _over?_ “You’re right, I see your point.”

This doesn’t alleviate Bruce’s frown. If anything, it seems to magnify it. “It’s okay if you’re stressed or worried about school, honey. You’re allowed to feel however you feel, but we can help you if you want help. School doesn’t need to be stressful.”

For a moment, Tim falls quiet as he swallows his arguments. Agreeing usually worked with his parents and ended the conversation quickly, so why isn’t it working here? Why is Bruce still pushing? Finally, he nods. “I am fine,” he repeats. “School is not stressful because I am _fine_.”

“Tim, honey….” Bruce says gently. Tim’s gaze flickers up, watching Bruce’s face, before he stares down at the floor again. After a long, long minute, Bruce sighs and stands up. “I’ll let you get back to your-- schoolhouse rock?” Tim nods; it’s one of his emergency distraction windows that he always keeps open on his laptop just in case someone walks by. “All right, well. See you later, Tim.”

He reaches out and gentle ruffles Tim’s hair before, finally, leaving Tim in peace.

* * *

In the blink of an eye, school starts again. Dick returns to Blüdhaven while Tim and Jason are left with papers and tests and homework.

It’s not stressful, it’s really not. There haven’t been any big tests because winter break just ended, so they haven’t learned enough material to be quizzed on anything yet. Tim does his work and stays on top of his reading assignments and goes over his notes and-- it’s fine.

He’s fine.

It’s just like when he was staying temporarily with the Waynes in the fall, waiting for his parents to return. Bruce said that Tim isn’t going back to Drake Manor, but… they’re his _parents_. Maybe Bruce is wrong or there’s some sort of mistake. They’re his parents; they love him.

(But they left him--)

(But they love him, they’re supposed to _love him_ \--)

Tim pushes those thoughts aside. It wasn’t that bad, really. He’s probably just remembering it as worse than it actually was and making a big deal out of nothing. Besides, he needs to focus on school. He can’t risk letting his grades slip.

* * *

It starts with a text.

Bruce is working from home, so he’s wearing a very professional button-up shirt with a pair of his old sweatpants. His ten o’clock virtual meeting with a few people from R&D goes smoothly and the number of emails in his inbox with the word _URGENT_ in their title is lower than usual. The Justice League is currently working on transporting a bunch of radioactive lemurs that were involved in a rather unfortunate accident involving a truck full of uranium over in Kazakhstan. Nobody was seriously injured and the lemurs will be transported to a specialized wildlife refuge that can meet their needs.

It is, by his standards, a good day. 

Until the text.

Dick [01/22, 11:37 AM]: is it safe to take dayquil with my antidepressants?

Bruce frowns at his phone. Questions like these never bode well.

Bruce [01/22, 11:38 AM]: No, but you can take pseudoepinephrine (sudafed) as long as you monitor your heart rate or guaifenesin (mucinex).

Bruce [01/22, 11:39 AM]: Are you feeling well?

Dick doesn’t immediately respond. He must be at work, so Bruce settles in to wait and keeps himself busy by replying to several emails. He tries to ignore the little voice in his head that wants to panic. Dick is nineteen years old and is a fully trained and highly capable vigilante, not to mention an incredible leader in his own right. Bruce couldn’t be prouder, and yet.

And yet, no matter how old his children get, they will always be his children and he will always worry about them. Ten agonizing minutes later, Dick finally replies.

Dick [01/22, 12:11 PM]: i think it’s just a cold

Bruce [01/22, 12:12 PM]: Okay. Stay hydrated and let me know if anything changes?

Dick [01/22, 12:14 PM]: will do

Dick [01/22, 12:14 PM]: i already taught the seven to ten year olds today and im just working on some paperwork in my apartment rn

Bruce [01/22, 12:15 PM]: Do you have anything planned for this afternoon? Any private lessons? Can you end your work day early if you need to?

Dick [01/22, 12:15 PM]: nah i only have paperwork. fun administrative stuff, u know. ur favorite

Dick [01/22, 12:16 PM]: i can ask one of the others to do it for me if i really need to

Bruce runs a hand through his hair. Oh, what he would give to be able to take care of everything for his children, but they need to be allowed to live their own lives.

Bruce [01/22, 12:16 PM]: All right.

Bruce [01/22, 12:17 PM]: Take it easy and keep me updated.

Dick texts him back a bunch of thumbs up emojis. Bruce sighs and sets down his phone, resigning himself to an afternoon of worry. He replies to more Wayne Enterprises emails, looks over the freshly submitted report on the irradiated lemurs, emails Lucius Fox about some odd-looking figures in Wayne Chemicals’ budget report, and peruses the Justice League’s slack group. (Barry Allen added a picture of a twelve year old chihuahua to the _Pet Pics_ thread. The chihuahua has black fur streaked with gray and is grimacing with all of her remaining teeth. Her name is apparently Batman and her favorite food is chopped-up hot dogs.)

The entire time, Bruce keeps one eye on his phone. He understands that Dick wanted to have space to be his own person, but in situations like these, it can be stressful. Bruce just wants his kids to be safe and healthy and happy, but it’s hard to ensure their safety when they’re so far away. Still, he’s talked extensively with Dinah about making compromises and his need to control everything. He’s getting there.

Finally, two hours later, Bruce gets another text.

Dick [01/22, 2:35 PM]: something came up with the titans. love you, will get back to u soon

Bruce [01/22, 2:36 PM]: Are you in the field right now??

Bruce [01/22, 2:36 PM]: Dick, it’s not a good idea to fight when you’re coming down with an illness. You could get much worse very quickly.

Dick [01/22, 2:37 PM]: im running comms

Dick [01/22, 2:37 PM]: from my apartment

Dick [01/22, 2:37 PM]: i know, B. will text soon

It’s a gentle dismissal, but a dismissal nonetheless. His son needs to work. Then again, Bruce does too. Rubbing his face, Bruce takes a moment to practice his deep breathing techniques before he continues typing out an email to R&D about research into a new metal alloy.

(He keeps one window open with live news footage of the Titans fighting a giant killer robot. Not to nitpick, of course. Nightwing has turned out to be a phenomenal leader. It’s good to keep an eye on the developing fight, but sometimes Bruce just likes seeing his son’s team fight like a well-oiled machine.)

The fight is over and the news has stopped filming by the time that Dick texts Bruce again.

Dick [01/22, 3:20 PM]: i might drive back home after we wrap up debrief

Bruce inhales, counts to five, and then exhales. Dick works with kids and constantly has children cartwheel into him at his job; it’s probably just the common cold. He’s had it plenty of times before, they both have. The common cold is easily managed with some cold medicine and plenty of liquids and rest.

Bruce [01/22, 3:21 PM]: How are you feeling?

Dick [01/22, 3:24 PM]: tired and my throat feels weird. im kinda chilly too, but that might just be because im sitting next to a drafty window

Bruce [01/22, 3:25 PM]: Okay. Stay hydrated and let me know when you’re planning on leaving.

He returns to his emails, albeit much more hesitantly than before. _Statistically, it’s most likely just a cold_ , he tells himself. Dick got his flu shot this year, just like every other year before that. He will be _completely fine_.

When Bruce’s phone rings and the caller ID says _Dick Grayson-Wayne_ , he lunges for his phone and quickly answers the call. “Dick?” he asks worriedly.

“Hi, Dad,” Dick says. It could just be the phone’s speaker, but his voice sounds a little scratchy. “So, uh, about my plan to drive over.”

“Are you all right?” Bruce asks immediately, blood pressure rising with every passing second. “Did something happen?”

“You know how I said earlier that I was chilly?”

Oh no. Suspicious of where this line of conversation is heading, he stands up and starts heading towards the front door. “Yes?”

“So it turns out that I wasn’t chilly. I had the chills. And I think I have a fever now, and it’s probably a bad idea to drive because I kind of feel like garbage.”

Bruce shoves the first shoes that he sees on, which happen to be a pair of old, grass-stained sneakers, snags his keys from the hook next to the door, and runs to the garage. “What’s your temperature?” he asks as he slides into the driver’s seat and turns on the ignition.

“Uh, let me check.”

The car reverses out of the garage and Bruce starts driving like a bat out of hell. Over the phone, he can hear the sound of a drawer being opened and then closed. There’s a pause for a few seconds and then a beep. Finally, Dick says, “One hundred point three.”

Bruce frowns and puts the phone on speaker. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

“It takes an hour and a half to drive here, Bruce. You’re already in the car, aren’t you?”

“It only takes that long to drive to Blüdhaven if you’re following the speed limit,” Bruce counters smoothly, pointedly ignoring Dick’s question.

“Do I want to know how fast you’re going?”

“No.”

Hoarse, raspy laughter crackles on the speaker.

“Think you can stay on the phone with me until I get there?” Bruce asks, hoping that the panic in his voice doesn’t shine through too much.

“I’ll try,” Dick replies.

In the end, it takes Bruce fifty six minutes to drive to Blüdhaven, park illegally, and sprint up the stairs to Dick’s apartment. He finds his son bundled up on the couch in a fluffy blanket, a messenger bag lying on the ground next to him.

“Hi, B,” Dick croaks, managing a tired smile.

“Dick,” Bruce says softly, leaning over enough to run a hand through his son’s hair. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

Dick laughs weakly. “Like hot garbage.”

“Think you can walk to the car?”

“...probably. We’ll have to find out.”

In the end, Dick is able to make it into the elevator and into the back seat of the car without Bruce’s help. He tucks a spare blanket under Dick’s head as a pillow, tosses the messenger bag on the passenger side seat, and then they’re off, speeding back to Gotham.

“Bruce,” Dick rasps forty-five minutes into the drive, “Dad.”

“Yes?” Bruce asks worriedly, glancing at his son in the rearview mirror.

There’s a pause as Dick briefly closes his eyes before reopening them again. “I feel hot. I think the fever’s getting worse.”

Bruce shoves his panic down and concentrates on driving. “Any other symptoms?”

“Um. Still tired. Head feels weird. Throat feels weird. And...” a pause.

“And what?” Bruce prompts gently.

“I feel like I went a few rounds with Bane. Like, physically.”

Mouth set in a grim line, Bruce nods and hits the button on the car’s console to call Alfred. He picks up after one ring. Without waiting for Alfred to say anything, Bruce quickly states, “Dick has a fever, fatigue, and body pains. He also says that his head and throat feel weird.”

“Poor child. I’ll prepare some chicken noodle soup for him when he gets home,” Alfred replies smoothly.

Bruce doesn’t necessarily _relax_ , per se, but his grip on the steering wheel loosens ever so slightly. Alfred knows what he’s doing. “Thanks, Alf. We’ll be home in ten minutes.”

By the time that they reach Wayne Manor, Dick’s face is sweaty and red with fever. Dick, who has been doing acrobatics ever since he learned how to walk, stumbles as he gets out of the car. Dick Grayson-Wayne _stumbles_. Bruce helps steady him as they walk inside as he reviews contingency plans in the back of his head. This illness struck too quickly and is too severe for it to be the common cold. What if someone targeted Nightwing with a supervirus? They’re vigilantes, so biowarfare certainly isn’t out of the question.

Bruce worries the whole excruciatingly slow trip to the den, where he gently deposits Dick on a sofa. He would bundle him with blankets, but he has a rising fever and it’s probably best to keep him cool right now.

“Dick, sweetheart,” he says, cupping Dick’s face with one hand. His skin is far too hot under Bruce’s fingers and oh, his baby. He might be fully grown, but part of Bruce will always look at Dick and see a tiny nine year old.

“Mmmm.” Dick turns and presses his face into Bruce’s hand. “I’m tired.”

Bruce smiles faintly and runs his thumb over Dick’s cheek. “I know, honey, but I need to know if you took any fever reducers before I picked you up.”

Dick frowns, thinking. “No,” he says finally. “Just sudafed.”

“All right. I’ll ask Alfred to bring you some.” He pulls out his phone and opens his text thread before he hears Alfred’s quiet footsteps.

“Already done, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, setting down a tray laden with a bowl of soup, a glass of water, a thermometer, and two small pills on the side table. He hands Dick the two pills; luckily, Dick has enough energy to sit up and swallow them with a sip of water.

“Thanks,” Dick rasps, leaning back into the couch cushions.

Alfred holds out the thermometer to Dick, who obediently sticks it in his mouth. Bruce hovers until the thermometer beeps and Dick takes it out, handing it to Alfred before slumping back onto his side.

“One hundred and two point eight degrees fahrenheit,” he announces, brow crinkling. “And in centigrade, that is…?”

Bruce frowns, running the numbers in his head before announcing, “About thirty nine point three degrees celsius.”

Nodding, Alfred sets the thermometer back on the tray. “Well, it’s a good thing that you picked him up when you did. If he’s going to be sick, at least he’ll be sick at home with the rest of us here to look after him.”

Bruce picks up the water glass and Alfred raises his eyebrows.

“Unless you’ve developed a sudden desire to catch the influenza, I wouldn’t recommend drinking from that, sir.”

“We don’t know if it’s the flu, Alfred. He’s a vigilante; he could’ve been targeted with a bioengineered virus. I’m going to run tests on his saliva in the lab.” He meets Alfred’s gaze unflinchingly until Alfred finally sighs.

“Very well. Go on, then,” he says, gesturing in the general direction of the study. “I know that you won’t be able to settle down until you’ve run those tests. I’ll keep an eye on him in the meantime.”

Bruce nods. “Thank you, Alf,” he says softly, before retreating to the Batcave.

* * *

After an hour full of very panicked planning on Bruce’s part and very calm reassurances on Alfred’s, the test results finally come in: Dick has the flu. Bruce triple checks the petri dish before he braces his arms on the table and lets his head drop in relief. It’s not a deadly supervirus engineered in some villain’s lair. He probably caught it from one of the kids in his gymnastics classes.

Bruce takes a minute to be thoroughly, utterly relieved before he heads back upstairs to tend to his sick son.

* * *

When Tim gets home from school that day, something about Wayne Manor seems… off. He can’t put his finger on what, exactly, so he makes sure to be extra careful as he tiptoes to his room. As he passes by the den, he can’t help but glance inside to gauge the situation.

What he finds is Bruce sitting in an armchair, typing something on his computer and occasionally looking up to check on Dick, who is fast asleep on the couch. There’s a tray on the side table closest to Dick with a glass of water and a bowl.

Tim frowns. It’s a Tuesday and normally, Dick is working in Blüdhaven until Friday. So why is he home early? If he was injured, he’d probably be in the Batcave instead of lying on a sofa in the den. But then again--

“Tim,” Bruce says. “Hi, chum.”

Startled, Tim jumps a little and tries to avoid looking like he was spying. “Hi,” he says awkwardly instead, eyes flickering over to Dick, who hasn’t stirred.

“Don’t worry about waking up Dick.” Bruce sets his computer down and clasps his hands in his lap. “He has the flu, so he can sleep through just about anything right now. He’ll be out for a while.”

“Oh.” Tim looks at Dick again and notes how even while asleep, his face is flushed and sweaty. “And he drove over here like that?”

Bruce takes off his reading glasses. “I picked him up,” he explains. “Dick was too sick to drive himself.”

 _But why is he here in the Manor_ , he wants to ask, but he bites the question down. “Huh, okay,” he says instead, shifting his weight.

For a long moment, Bruce keeps watching him with flinty eyes that aren’t Batman’s eyes but aren’t quite Bruce Wayne’s either. Would it be rude if Tim retreated to his room now? Would Bruce be mad? But then Bruce says, “You know, we can see if Dick is up for a movie night after dinner. He’d appreciate the company, I think.”

“All right. Um. I’m going to go do my homework now, if that’s okay.” Tim waits, watching Bruce watch him.

Head tilted, Bruce finally says, “You know, you don’t need to ask permission to go do things. You’re part of the family, Tim.”

Tim shuffles his feet. “Well, I don’t want to be rude,” he says quietly.

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Be rude how? By leaving a room mid-conversation? Dick does that all the time. Far worse things have happened in this house than that, I can promise you that.”

“But Dick has ADHD,” Tim points out. “That’s different.”

“Perhaps, but leaving the room to go do something is literally not even an issue,” Bruce says.

Tim frowns. “It’s disrespectful.”

“How so?” Bruce asks smoothly, head tilted.

“I--” Tim opens his mouth and then closes it again. “It just is, okay? Look, may I please be excused to go do homework?”

Bruce nods, looking slightly… sad? Why is he sad? “All right. I’ll see you later, Tim.”

Tim ducks out of the doorway and darts into his bedroom before anyone else can stop him. He doesn’t fully close his door behind him, but he can leave it just barely cracked open. (It’s fine, he’s fine--)

Taking a seat at his desk, Tim pulls out his homework for the day and gets to work.

* * *

Dick wakes up after dinner and smiles groggily at Bruce, Tim, and Jason as they walk into the den. “Hey,” he rasps.

“Hi, buddy. How are you feeling?” Bruce asks gently, leaning forward to press his hand against Dick’s forehead.

Dick makes a face and wiggles his hand in a so-so motion. “I haven’t gotten any better and I haven’t gotten any worse.”

Alfred glances over from the socks that he’s knitting. “We’ll see how you’re doing tomorrow. The third day of the flu is usually the worst, so your symptoms may continue to intensify until then.”

“Well, right now I’m feeling like I want to do movie night,” Dick declares.

Jason flops onto the sofa adjacent to Dick’s. “Since you’re sick, I _suppose_ that we can let you pick the movie,” he sighs.

Bruce gets some hand sanitizer from the container sitting next to Dick before taking a seat next to Jason. “Dick should pick the movie,” he agrees. Glancing over at Tim, who is still hovering near the doorway, he smiles and holds out a hand. “Hey, chum. Why don’t you find somewhere to sit?”

Tim hesitates. This is a family movie night and it feels like he’s intruding even if he was specifically invited. “I’m fine on the floor,” he hedges.

“There’s plenty of room on this sofa, or you can sit in one of the reclining chairs so you can see the screen. Here, Jason, scoot over--” With some shifting of limbs, a larger space is freed up between them.

“C’mon, baby bird!” Jason calls from Bruce’s other side.

Tim looks between the reclining chairs and the sofa. Finally, Tim shuffles forward and takes a seat on the couch between Bruce and Jason, who affectionately ruffles his hair.

“What are we watching?” Jason asks.

Smiling triumphantly, Dick opens netflix. “Camp Rock.”

Jason narrows his eyes before nodding. “A reasonable choice,” he decides. “Tim, have you ever seen Camp Rock?”

Tim blinks. “...No?”

“You _what_? We must rectify this injustice immediately,” Jason declares.

“Well, we _are_ about to watch the movie,” Bruce points out, smiling.

The rest of the evening is full of Jason’s strong opinions about the cinematography, Alfred’s occasional wry remarks about the feasibility of the plot, Bruce occasionally pointing out when a particular stunt wouldn’t work, and Dick taking very brief naps before waking up for the important scenes. Ace, the best dog, naps in the corner like a champion.

Tim stays silent as he observes the chaos around him. He doesn’t fully relax, not really, but he’s able to lose himself in the warm laughter in the room and Demi Lovato’s musical numbers, if only for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the aerodynamic [S](https://chocolateandsilver.tumblr.com/), my beta, and to the inedible [goldkirk](https://goldkirk.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> I'm extremely sleepy despite it only being 8:40pm. Am I a real life zombie? Is this what grad school will be like? Do my dogs sleep so much because they always feel like this? I have so many questions and so few answers. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	21. oh, i know i'm worse for weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim is fine. He's fine, he's managing it, and he doesn't need help. However, Bruce disagrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from West Coast by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> Nothing like some good hurt/comfort to wake you up in the morning!! 
> 
> **CWs:** vomiting, illness (non-deadly), mention of IV lines

By the time that Tim and Jason leave for school the next day, Dick is still asleep.

“Don’t worry about Master Dick,” Alfred tells them as he hands them their omelets the next morning. “Fatigue is a very common symptom of the flu. The more that he rests, the more quickly he’ll recover.”

He drops them off at school, like usual. School is about as interesting as usual, which is to say, not very interesting at all. Tim goes to class, has lunch with Jason in the corner of the library, and goes home. They eat dinner-- pasta with cream sauce, served with roasted vegetables-- in the den while Dick sips on one of Bruce’s special energy drinks. Afterwards, Tim puts on headphones and does homework on a couch while Jason sprawls out with a book in the middle of the den floor. He goes to bed at eleven o’clock when his phone buzzes with its usual nightly _go to bed!!_ alarm, complete with two moon emojis.

And everything is completely normal and Tim is perfectly fine, thank you very much.

* * *

It starts with Tim jolting awake at two o’clock in the morning, stomach lurching.

He just barely manages to dash into the bathroom and fall to his knees in front of the toilet before he throws up. It’s probably just food poisoning or an upset stomach or something. The pasta they had for dinner was kind of heavy-- maybe that was it. Tim flushes the toilet, rinses out his mouth, and goes back to sleep.

It’s fine, he can deal with a little bit of puking. He can take care of himself just fine. After all, he’s been doing it for years.

And then it happens again at three o’clock. By four o’clock, he’s getting kind of tired and shaky. At around five fifteen, his body can’t decide if it wants to be hot or cold, so it keeps switching every few minutes. But it’s fine. Tim drags himself back to bed after flushing the toilet and gargling some water, even when his body doesn’t really want to cooperate with him. He’s done it before and he can do it again.

Finally, _finally_ , Tim falls asleep a little after five. He wakes up in tangled, sweaty sheets to the sound of his usual eight o’clock alarm and groans. His head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton and when he stands up, the whole world sways for a minute before righting itself. It feels like he was run over by a sixteen wheeler.

But there’s school today, and Tim can’t miss _school._

So he gets dressed in his school uniform even though he feels way too hot and shaky, grabs his backpack, and begins the trek down to the kitchen. By the time he gets there, he’s kind of woozy and he feels a little bit like a zombie, but hey, he made it!

Tim sets his backpack down next to his chair like usual and plops down in his seat. Bruce barely lifts his head up from the morning newspaper and grunts in greeting, nudging a coffee cup closer to Tim. It’s made just the way Tim likes it.

“Thanks,” he says, forcing himself to smile before taking a sip. It’s-- not _bad_ , it tastes good, but it makes his stomach churn uncomfortably. 

“Good morning, Master Tim,” Alfred calls from over by the stove.

“Hi, Alfred,” Tim rasps, ladling himself some oatmeal. He takes tiny bites of it-- it’s good, of course it is, because Alfred made it, but Tim’s stomach still feels weird. It’s probably a bad case of food poisoning, but he’ll figure something out.

There’s a soft clatter as Alfred sets down the spatula. Oh no. Is Alfred mad? Did something happen? He didn’t notice anything, but then again, maybe he missed something. But when Tim glances over to surreptitiously check out what’s going on, he finds Alfred walking towards him. Tim can only blink, stupefied, as Alfred presses his hand to Tim’s forehead.

“Master Tim, are you feeling well?” Alfred asks, brow creased with concern.

Bruce’s head snaps up from the newspaper, instantly alert. Jason follows a moment later, blinking groggily.

“Yes?” Tim replies, confused.

Alfred frowns. “For someone who’s feeling well, you’re awfully warm.”

Bruce stands up, setting down his coffee. “Here, let me see,” he says, striding over and placing his own hand on Tim’s forehead. Tim merely sits there, too tired to try to move away. After a moment, Bruce frowns. “You’re right, Alf, he’s running hot.”

“It’s not that bad, really. I’m fine,” Tim offers.

“The fuck you are,” Jason says over a mouthful of cereal, prompting dual reminders of _language, Jay_ , and _kindly watch your language, Master Jason._

Both of Bruce’s eyebrows creep up his face. “Really,” he repeats calmly, leaning down to crouch next to Tim. “Are you sure, honey?”

Tim nods even though the motion makes his head feel kind of weird. “Yeah. I’ve had worse, honestly. Besides, I don’t even have any quizzes today or anything. I can just go to class and take notes.”

“Open your mouth, Master Tim,” Alfred instructs. Without thinking twice, Tim obeys, only to have a thermometer placed in his mouth. Bruce runs a hand through Tim’s hair, frown deepening as he watches the numbers on the thermometer rise.

At last, the thermometer beeps and Alfred takes it out of Tim’s mouth. “One hundred and two point six,” he announces.

“Oh, buddy,” Bruce murmurs, scratching at Tim’s scalp. Tim can’t help but to lean his head into Bruce’s hand because his skin is nice and cool and he’s really tired, okay? “You poor thing.”

“Master Tim,” Alfred says, “I’m afraid that you’re going to have to stay home from school today.”

Tim looks up at Alfred with wide eyes. “But-- I don’t feel that bad. I can still go to class and everything. Look, I’m already dressed for school.” He points at his uniform.

“Sir, we do not attend school when we have a fever,” Alfred says patiently but firmly. “Under no circumstances are you going to school today.”

“But--” Stricken, Tim looks between Bruce and Alfred. “But I have s _chool_ ,” he finishes, nearly whispering.

“Tim, buddy,” Bruce says, cupping Tim’s face with one hand. “We need to make sure that you can take the time you need to heal and get better. Plus, we don’t want you to accidentally infect someone who is immunocompromised or has family members who are.”

“Oh,” Tim says quietly, staring at the floor.

Bruce starts stroking Tim’s hair again. “Now, you have a pretty high fever, sweetheart. Do you have any other symptoms? Are you tired? Does anything hurt? How’s your head and your throat?”

“Nothing hurts, um.” Tim pauses, watching his feet swing in the chair. “I’m kinda tired, but I didn’t sleep well last night, so that’s probably why.”

“What do you mean?” Bruce cocks his head.

Tim picks at the edge of his sleeve. “I threw up. I probably ate something bad, is all.”

Bruce and Alfred exchange looks before Alfred walks over to the fridge.

“Okay,” Bruce says evenly. “How many times?”

“Uh. Four times, I think?”

Expression unchanging, Bruce nods. “All right. Is there anything else? How do your head and throat feel?”

He shrugs. “They’re fine.”

For a moment, Bruce watches Tim with Batman eyes before he finally nods. “Okay, buddy. I’m going to tell you the plan for today, all right?”

Tim nods hesitantly.

Bruce places a gentle hand on Tim’s knee. “First, we’re going to try to get you to keep some liquids down. I’d bet that you’re pretty dehydrated right now. Then we’re going to bundle you onto a couch with Dick, give you something to reduce your fever, and let you watch TV all day. If you’re tired, then you’re going to nap. Does that sound good?”

“I mean-- I guess?”

Alfred returns from the fridge and hands Tim one of Bruce’s special energy drinks. “Take small sips and we’ll see if you can keep it down.”

Tim nods, a little dazed, and Bruce leans forward to kiss Tim’s forehead. “We’re going to take care of you, okay? I know that being sick sucks, but we’ll try to get you feeling better as quickly as possible.”

“Okay,” he whispers, clutching the energy drink in his hands.

“Think you can walk to the den, or do you need to be carried?” Bruce asks calmly.

“I can walk,” Tim quickly says, standing up. His head swims a bit before settling. To his surprise, Bruce picks up his backpack for him before taking Tim’s hand.

“Let’s go,” Bruce says, smiling gently.

Dazed, Tim nods, and they start the trek to the den. It’s… harder than Tim expected, honestly. His legs turn into jelly when they’re three-quarters of the way there and he stumbles, but Bruce catches him easily. With one smooth motion, Bruce hoists Tim into his arms and continues walking.

“You don’t need to carry me,” Tim says, bewildered.

Bruce glances down at him. “Maybe, but I want to,” he replies.

Unsure what to do with that information, Tim wraps his arms around Bruce’s neck and resigns himself to being carried the rest of the way. Bruce deposits Tim on one of the couches and makes sure that he’s propped up with enough pillows before he leaves Tim’s backpack within easy reach on the floor.

“Drink more of that,” he instructs, pointing at the bottled energy drink as he grabs the bottle of tylenol left over from when Dick was in the den the other day.

Tim obediently takes a few more sips as Bruce pours two tylenol into his hand and hands them to Tim. He swallows them with a mouthful of the energy drink. At least this drink doesn’t taste like Bruce’s protein shakes, which are still a little bit disgusting despite Alfred’s best efforts. Bruce also brings an empty plastic trash bin lined with a garbage bag over to Tim and leaves it on the ground right in front of him, presumably as a barf bucket.

“I’m going to go upstairs check on Dick and see if he’s ready to come downstairs,” Bruce says, kneeling down in front of Tim. “We’ll be back down in a few minutes, but why don’t you get a show started in the meantime?” He passes the remote to Tim and kisses his forehead before jogging out of the room.

Tim has to pick the show that they’re all going to watch? What if he chooses wrong? This feels like a punishment. He pokes around the different shows on Bruce’s netflix account until he finally decides on Avatar the Last Airbender. Everyone likes that show right?

By the time that Avatar’s intro theme starts playing, Bruce hobbles into the study with Dick weakly clinging to his back. Carefully, so carefully, Bruce sets Dick down on the couch next to Tim’s and props a few pillows under his bed.

Eyes glazed with fever, Dick reaches out to clumsily grab Bruce’s hand and mumbles something in a language that Tim doesn’t recognize. Bruce’s face softens and he leans down to kiss Dick’s forehead, murmuring something in reply.

Straightening back up, Bruce runs a hand through Dick’s hair and says, “I’m going to answer a few emails while we wait for Alfred to get back. What show did you pick, Tim?”

“Avatar,” Tim replies, fidgeting with the remote. “If you don’t like it, I can change it.”

“Oh, Avatar is a great choice,” Bruce says easily as he takes a seat on the other end of Tim’s couch and picks up his laptop from the side table. “You have good taste, bud.”

Tim ignores the way that his ears flush at the compliment and instead focuses on whatever Katara is saying.

* * *

Alfred returns one episode later. Bruce and Alfred take Tim and Dick’s temperatures again and seem pleased that Tim’s has dropped by a few points, but they frown at Dick’s. There’s some muttering about a warm bath to trick his body into thinking that he’s too warm so it’ll cool him down, but they end up giving him more tylenol and seeing how he does. Alfred insists that Tim changes into pajamas instead of wearing his uniform all day, so Tim reluctantly lets himself be ushered upstairs to change and then back downstairs.

Tim has a banana and gatorade for lunch. He manages to not puke until two hours afterwards, which he is personally pretty proud of. At least he managed to dash to the bathroom instead of puking in the trash can and risking getting vomit on the couch.

By the time that Jason comes home from school, Tim is feeling pretty okay. He’s still kind of feverish and not necessarily _great_ , but he also doesn’t feel like something that was scraped off the bottom of someone’s shoe. Well, his throat is kind of sore, but that’s about it.

“Hi, Jay,” he croaks when Jason returns.

“Hey. How was the sickbay?” Jason asks with his backpack slung over one shoulder. Glancing at the television, he nods approvingly. “Oh, you’re watching Avatar? Nice.”

“It’s been good. Dick is still sick, though,” Tim replies.

Jason looks over at Dick, whose face is red and sweaty as he naps. “Yeah, I can see that.”

Tim nods and toys with “Um. By any chance, did you pick up my homework for me?”

Bruce looks up right as Jason snorts and goes, “Why? Are you gonna do it like this?”

“Yes,” Tim replies seriously.

Setting down his laptop, Bruce stands up and walks over to Tim’s couch. “Tim, buddy, you don’t need to worry about homework right now.”

“But it’s due tomorrow!” Tim protests, fingers tangling in the pillow clutched to his chest.

Bruce settles down so he’s kneeling in front of Tim. “Sweetheart, you have the flu. You’re going to get excused absences for all of the time that you take off to recover and your teachers will help you make up any missed work. But please, _please_ don’t worry about your homework right now. I want you to focus on feeling better, okay?”

Frowning, Tim stares at the pillow in his hands. “Okay,” he mumbles half-heartedly.

“I mean it,” Bruce says gently. “No work. Dick isn’t working, see?”

“But Dick is really sick,” Tim protests.

Bruce kisses his forehead. “So are you, buddy. That’s why I want you to focus on getting better. Does that make sense?”

Tim nods, though he’s still frowning a little. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I’m gonna go do stuff for a few hours, but I’ll come hang out with you guys later,” Jason announces before sweeping out of the room. “I’d hate for you to get _sick_ of me!” His cackling echoes down the hallway.

Alfred shakes his head at the pun as he continues knitting a pair of socks, but he smiles nonetheless.

* * *

Tim chokes down some applesauce for dinner with an energy drink and more tylenol for dessert. (He’s getting a little tired of the taste of Bruce’s energy drinks, but apparently they’re very hydrating. Whatever, he’ll deal with it.)

Alfred tucks him into bed with firm instructions to wake them up if he throws up again. Bruce drops by to say goodnight too and kisses Tim’s forehead before leaving.

It’s safe to say that Tim does puke again that night, but less than he did the previous night. He doesn’t wake up Bruce or Alfred, though. Why would he wake them up in the middle of the night and bother them when he could handle it himself?

Even though he’s feverish, he manages to sleep a little bit too. He wakes up just long enough to turn off his regular alarm before proceeding to sleep until ten, when Bruce digs him out of bed and carries him down to the den.

“How are you feeling today, buddy?” Bruce asks as he sets Tim down on a couch.

Tim shrugs. “Fine, I guess,” he rasps. In truth, his body is starting to feel like it was run over by a golf cart, but it’s not a truck or anything. It’s not worth bothering the adults about it yet.

Bruce eyes him suspiciously, looking over Tim’s face before nodding once. “Okay,” he says neutrally. “Let me know if you start feeling worse, all right?”

Tim nods and eats some applesauce while Dick, who is looking more alert than yesterday, loads up Queer Eye. Eventually, he gets tired enough to lay down on the pillows and, finally, he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

When Tim wakes up, he’s somehow just as tired as he was at the beginning of the nap. There’s also the new sensation of something being lodged in his chest, but when he coughs, it’s dry and hacking. Face creased with worry, Bruce takes a seat next to Tim and rubs his back until he’s done coughing.

“The virus is irritating your airways,” he informs Tim after the coughing fit subsides. “So that’s why you’re coughing.”

“In a few days, you’ll be like me and start coughing up gross stuff!” Dick rasps from the couch, smiling.

Tim curls up on his side with a sigh. “Great.” Bruce starts petting his hair, so he supposes that everything isn’t all that terrible yet.

He nibbles on some bananas as a snack while Queer Eye plays in the background, but it takes a monumental effort. Tim is _tired_. His body feels heavy and it takes so much energy to move. Bruce keeps running a soothing hand through his hair even though it’s definitely sweaty and gross.

Eventually, he summons the energy to sit up and then stand on shaky legs.

“Bathroom,” he explains when Bruce glances at him.

“Do you need help getting there?” Bruce asks, brow furrowed.

Tim shakes his head. “No, I can walk.” To prove it, he takes a wobbly step forward, head spinning, and then his knees buckle. He would’ve toppled over completely if Bruce’s arms hadn’t shot out to catch him before he hit the floor.

“I think I need to carry you, bud,” Bruce says gently, scooping Tim up so he’s cradled against his chest.

It’s a testament to Tim’s sheer exhaustion that he doesn’t have the energy to protest. His stomach, however, has other ideas. The sudden shock of falling and then being caught seems to have upset it and it roils unpleasantly. After the past thirty-six hours, Tim is very familiar with the sensation of being about to puke.

“Um, Bruce,” He says quietly, looking up at Bruce.

“Hmm?”

“I think I might--”

And then he leans over and throws up all over the floor and Bruce’s feet.

Bruce pauses and then steps over the mess as Tim’s sick and thoroughly mortified brain struggles to formulate a response.

“I-- I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry, I didn’t mean to--” he croaks, fingers clutching desperately at Bruce’s shirt. “I can clean it up myself, I swear--”

“Tim,” Bruce says gently, one hand splayed across Tim’s back. “It’s okay. I’m going to take you to the bathroom, we can let you rinse your mouth out with water, and then you’re going to rest on the couch again. Maybe drink some fluids if you can stomach it. Okay?”

Tim stares up at Bruce with wide eyes. “But-- I made a _mess_. I puked and it got on you, and, and--”

Bruce smiles wryly and kisses Tim’s forehead. “I promise that I’ve gotten worse things on me. I’ll live. Besides, you’re sick, sport. You can’t exactly help it.”

“But--”

“Jason and Dick have both thrown up on me, and bled on me, and cried on me. It’s practically a rite of passage at this point.” Nudging the bathroom door open with his hip, Bruce sets Tim down on his feet on the soft rug. “I’ll wait outside for you, okay?”

Dazed and still embarrassed, Tim nods and watches as Bruce shuts the bathroom door behind himself as he leaves.

 _This_ , he thinks, _can’t get any worse._

* * *

Except it can.

Mercifully, Tim doesn’t puke on anything or anyone else for the rest of the day, save for the well-named “puke bin” and the toilet. However, his body feels like it was run over by a truck carrying elephants. Despite the tylenol that Alfred and Bruce hand to him every few hours like clockwork, everything _hurts._ It’s so stupid because Tim hasn’t even been injured, but he still aches all over.

To make matters worse, he keeps switching between feeling way too hot and way too hot. One minute, he’s shivering from the cold and the next, he’s kicked all of his blankets off because he’s literally burning alive.

The world dissolves into a haze of heat and sweat and pain, occasionally punctuated by Bruce and Alfred’s worried faces. Why are they so worried? Did something happen?

“We’re just worried about you, sweetheart,” Bruce smiles, smoothing some of Tim’s hair off of his forehead.

Oh. Did he say that aloud? Oops. Tim grunts and rolls over, pressing his face into the mercifully cool couch cushions.

He thinks that he falls asleep for a little bit, but he’s not entirely sure. When he opens his eyes again, they’re sticky and achy. It takes an enormous effort to lift his head and look around. He’s in Wayne Manor’s den and look, there’s Dick Grayson-Wayne sleeping on the other couch. Huh. What’s Tim doing here?

Wait a second.

The events from earlier that day come crashing back to him in a foggy haze. He threw up on Bruce Wayne. He vomited on _Bruce Wayne._ And Tim is just a guest here, and weren’t his parents supposed to come back? He vaguely remembers something about waiting for them to come back, so maybe they're supposed to come pick him up today.

And if they find out that he puked on _Bruce Wayne_ \--

Oh no.

Tim needs to hide, quick, before they come back and find him.

Heart pounding, Tim sluggishly climbs off the couch and onto the floor. He doesn’t have time to go hide in the closet in his room, but he needs to find a hiding spot soon. Tim’s head spins as he quickly looks around the room, but there aren’t any good hiding places. Unless…

He presses himself flat against the blessedly cool wood floor and wedges himself under the couch. It’s not the best hiding place, but at least he’s out of sight. The little strips of fabric hanging down from the couch help hide him pretty well too, so that’s a plus. It’s a bit dusty, but Tim tries to cough as quickly as possible. The coughing stops after a minute and Tim stays as still as he can while huddled underneath a couch. If he’s careful, he can see a little through the small slot between the edge of the hanging fabric and the floor.

And then, skin blazing and body aching, he waits.

And waits.

It doesn’t take long for Tim to see a pair of feet walk into the study. Is that-- his dad? Did he come to pick up Tim from the Waynes? Oh no. He’s going to be _so mad_.

The pair of feet pauses in the middle of the den. “Tim?”

Tim shoves a hand over his mouth to keep himself from making any noise and lays very, very still as the feet begin to circle the den.

“Tim, buddy, where did you go?” There’s the soft squeak of a chair being pushed aside, of a curtain being moved to check behind it.

“B? What’s wrong?” Dick asks from the other couch, groggy with sleep.

“I think Tim is hiding,” the voice says. “Have you seen him?”

Tim nearly squeaks, but he manages to keep himself quiet. They know that he’s hiding! Maybe the person in the study is coming to get him and bring him back to his parents? Oh, they’re going to be so angry with him for hiding and making things difficult for them, but it doesn’t feel safe to come out yet.

“He was on the couch when I fell asleep,” Dick replies. “Want me to help look?”

The voice sighs. “No, you should rest. I’ll keep looking.”

There’s a pause and then the footsteps get closer to the couch.

And closer.

And closer.

Tim holds himself as still as he can, cheek pressed against the floor, and squeezes his eyes shut.

* * *

Bruce slowly approaches the couch, careful to keep his footsteps light and nonthreatening. “Tim?” he calls again. “Are you under there, sweetie?”

Kneeling in front of the couch, Bruce bends down to peer underneath it. Lo and behold, there’s a familiar flushed face and blue eyes that stare back at him before Tim moves his arm to cover his face.

“Hey, buddy. It’s just me,” he says, keeping his voice as gentle as possible. “Would you mind coming out from under there? You’re very sick and we need to make sure that you’re okay.”

No movement.

Bruce decides to pull out his trump card. “Tim? Ace misses you. Why don’t you come out from under there and we can pet him together, okay?”

Still nothing. Oh, the poor thing must be feeling really awful if even the mention of Ace won’t get him to come out. Well, Bruce was hoping to avoid doing things the hard way, but Tim is sick and he would really, really like to check his temperature right now.

“Sweetheart, we really need you to come out here. I’m going to go ahead and move the couch, okay?” He waits, watching for a nod of acknowledgment, anything, but Tim does nothing but stifle a cough.

Bruce stands back up and, face set in a calm mask, starts moving the couch. “We just need to make sure that you’re okay, sweetheart,” he says as he slowly shifts the couch. “You’re safe here. We’re going to take care of you, all right? We want you to be safe and healthy.”

Finally, he moves the couch enough to uncover Tim, still dressed in his pajamas and pressed flat against the floor. Bruce kneels next to him, keeping his hands on his knees. “Hey, buddy, there you are. It’s just me. I need to touch your face for a moment to check your fever. Can you move your hand for me, honey?”

There’s a long pause and Bruce starts mentally reviewing his options for if Tim doesn’t want to be touched. Then, finally, Tim slowly moves his hand, blinking at Bruce with fever-glazed eyes.

“Thank you, sweetie,” Bruce tells him as he reaches out to press his hand against Tim’s forehead, and. Oh. Oh no. He’s burning up. Well, Bruce can’t strictly say that he’s _surprised_ , but Tim feels dangerously warm.

Feet shuffle behind him and Bruce barely glances over to glimpse Jason standing in the doorway, still dressed in his school uniform. But then Tim shifts slightly and Bruce’s attention snaps back to the sick thirteen year old before him.

“Are you mad?” Tim rasps, eyes darting around the room before settling on Bruce.

“Mad?” Bruce asks, voice carefully calm. “Why would I be mad, honey?”

Tim blinks up at Bruce. “‘cause I puked on you?”

Jason pads forwards and crouches down at the edge of the carpet. “Dude, we’ve all done way worse than puke on Bruce.”

Nose scrunching, Tim frowns at Jason. “Like what?”

Smiling, Jason leans forward conspiratorially. “I tried to steal his tires,” he stage-whispers.

Wide eyed, Tim sniffles a little. “Really?”

Jason nods, smile growing. “Yeah, but guess what? I tried to steal the _Batmobile’s_ tires.”

Tim pauses, eyes as wide as saucers, as his gaze flits over to Bruce and then back to Jason. “The Batmobile? You mean… Bruce is _Batman_?”

In any other situation, it would almost be funny. Right now, though, Bruce’s heart nearly stops in his chest. _How high must his fever be for him to forget something as major as Batman’s true identity_? Jason pauses, glancing at Bruce as he waits for guidance.

Bruce takes a deep breath, forcing his thoughts into order. There is a child who needs help. Very, very calmly, Bruce turns to Jason and asks, “Can you please go fetch Alfred?”

Mouth set in a grim line, Jason stands up and _sprints_ out of the den. Bruce can feel Dick’s eyes boring into the back of his neck, so he turns to look at his eldest child. “Dick,” he says, “I want you to stay here. You’re still not fully recovered and you need to rest.”

Dick frowns, but doesn’t say anything. Bruce turns back to Tim and leans forward to brush some of his hair, sticking to his skin with sweat, out of his eyes. “I’m going to pick you up and carry you to my bathroom, okay?”

Tim hums, which Bruce takes as an affirmative answer, so he scoops up Tim with both arms. He can practically feel the warmth radiating off of Tim’s skin as he carries him to his bathroom as quickly as he can without jostling Tim too much. Alfred is already waiting next to the tub, his shirtsleeves drawn up.

“I’ve taken the liberty of drawing a warm bath,” Alfred informs him as he hands over a thermometer. “It should help bring his internal temperature closer to normal.”

Bruce gently sticks the thermometer in Tim’s mouth and watches the numbers climb higher and then higher still, before it finally beeps. The temperature it reads nearly makes his heart stop.

“One hundred and four point zero,” he says grimly as he hands the thermometer back to Alfred.

The door creaks slightly as Dick steps into the doorway, watching silently as Alfred says, “While you get Master Tim to take a bath, I’m going to call Dr. Thompkins.”

Bruce nods and Alfred stands up, pausing to place a steadying hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “And Master Bruce?”

“Yes?” Bruce cradles Tim against his chest like he’s made of spun glass.

“Master Tim will be fine. We’ll make sure of it.”

And then Alfred steps into the bedroom as he pulls out his phone, leaving Dick to watch with dark, worried eyes.

With Tim still cradled in his arms, Bruce sits down on the soft rug next to the bathtub and takes a deep breath. “Tim, sweetie, we need to put you in the bath for a bit. It’s going to feel a little cold but we need to do it to keep you healthy, okay?”

Scrunching his eyes shut, Tim shakes his head and wraps his arms weakly around Bruce’s neck.

Bruce gently rubs Tim’s back with one hand. “I’m really sorry, honey, I don’t want to do this either, but we need to cool you down.”

Tim makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like a sob, and, oh, he’s trying to cry but he must be too dehydrated to actually shed any tears. Bruce can feel his heart breaking as he tucks Tim’s head under his chin.

“Am I being punished?” Tim croaks.

“No, sweetie, you’re not being punished,” Bruce manages to force out in a relatively normal-sounding voice. He closes his eyes and mentally counts to ten before adding, “You didn’t do anything wrong, I promise. But we do really need to cool you down. I’m going to put you in the bath now, okay?”

Tim shakes his head again and clings to Bruce, tangling his fingers in Bruce’s shirt and hiding his face in his chest. “No,” he mumbles into Bruce’s shirt.

Bruce runs one hand through Tim’s hair as he considers his options. Finally, he asks, “What if I do it with you? We can be cold together.” The bath itself will feel warm to Bruce, but the problems are timing and evaporation. If he’s half-in the bath for a long time, then evaporation will cool him down enough that he’ll start feeling cold. Tim, though, should be fine as long as he’s fully submerged.

The bundle of teenager in his arms shifts, pulling his face just far away enough to peer up at Bruce with glazed eyes. “Together?” Tim asks suspiciously, but there’s a hint of hope in his voice too.

Nodding, Bruce kisses Tim’s forehead. “Together,” he confirms.

A long moment passes before Tim finally nods a little. “Okay,” he whispers.

Bruce takes his phone out of his back pocket and leaves it on the floor. “Do you have your phone with you? I don’t want to get it wet.” Tim shakes his head. “All right. I’m going to pick you up and then we’re going to climb into the tub together.”

Tim’s fingers curl in Bruce’s shirt as he stands up and, after a moment to mentally brace himself, steps into the tub. The water soaks the hem of his sweatpants-- come to think of it, it was definitely a good idea to get dressed today in clothes that he’s okay with getting vomit on.

Bruce sits down in the tub, still fully clothed. Water laps at Tim’s pajama pants and he makes a face, but doesn’t move. Still, more of him needs to be submerged in order for the warm water to actually lower his core temperature. With Tim still clutched to his chest, Bruce slowly leans backwards until Tim is submerged in the water.

“It’s c-cold,” Tim stammers, curling up against Bruce’s chest.

“I know, sweetheart,” Bruce soothes, running a hand through Tim’s hair. “It feels cold to you because you have a high fever. We have to stay in here for a while to get you cooled down.”

Tim makes a noise that might be acknowledgment and settles down with his cheek pressed against Bruce’s chest. His eyes close as the warm water laps at his sides. Bruce sighs and continues to pet Tim’s hair as he starts mentally counting to one hundred in Russian in an effort to ignore how the parts of him that aren’t submerged are steadily growing cooler.

That’s how Leslie finds them later, with Tim mostly asleep and cradled in Bruce’s arms. She smiles at him, but it’s slightly strained. “I remember having to give you a body temperature bath when you were younger when you were sick.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Leslie takes a seat on the edge of the tub. “We had trouble getting you in the water, so we finally gave up and told you to _not_ get in the tub. But you were just as stubborn as you are today, so that’s when you decided to finally climb in.”

He smiles faintly as she passes him a thermometer and carefully sticks it in Tim’s mouth without waking him. “Did I really? I don’t remember.”

“I’d be surprised if you remembered. You were pretty out of it.”

The thermometer beeps and Bruce peers at it before handing it back to Leslie. “One hundred and two point five.”

She takes the thermometer and nods before setting it on the edge of the tub. “Still not great, but that’s better than one-oh-four. How about we get you both out of the tub before you turn blue, get you dried off, and start Tim on some IV fluids and liquid tylenol?”

Bruce nods and sits up in the tub. Leslie takes a step back as he carefully stands up, sending liquid sloshing. She holds her hands out as if, despite being a good seven inches shorter than him, she could somehow catch him and Tim if he slipped. He stands there on the bathroom tile, cascading water, as she drapes a towel around his neck. Finally, she beckons for him to follow her back out of his bedroom and into the hallway.

“Which one is his room? We should get him set up somewhere he’s comfortable,” she says, glancing at the rows of doors.

“This one,” Alfred says, opening the door to Tim’s room. They file in, with Alfred carting an IV pole and several IV bags along as he follows them inside.

Alfred grabs several towels from Tim’s bathroom and lays them down on his bed to keep it from getting too soaked. Together, he and Bruce start patting Tim dry as Leslie hangs the bags on the IV.

“I’m going to start him off with some fluids and liquid tylenol. Let’s see how he’s doing in a few hours and we can adjust the dosage then,” she says, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “I’ll put the IV in. Bruce, can you grab me some more towels, please?”

Bruce nods and disappears into the bathroom to take the remaining few towels. When he pops back out, Tim’s IV line is in and Alfred is sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking his hair.

“Bruce, come over here for a moment?” Leslie asks from her seat in the armchair as she starts scrawling notes on a clipboard.

He obediently walks over, but she lightly swats him away when he tries to look at her notes over her shoulder. “Hand me those towels, will you?”

Bruce hands them over and Leslie stands up, draping one towel around his still-soaked shoulders before tossing one directly over his head. He blinks, surprised, but doesn’t move as she starts to towel off his hair. “Looking at you walking around like this is making me cold. Or it’s going to _give_ me a cold.”

“Technically, being cold won’t give you a cold. That’s a myth,” Bruce says helpfully.

Leslie stops toweling off his hair and pulls the towel away so he can see her glare. “I’m well aware, but that doesn’t mean that it’s a good idea.” She starts drying off his hair a tad more ferociously than before.

“I had to get into the tub with him. Otherwise he wouldn’t have done it.”

A sigh, and Leslie balls up the towel so she can start gently dabbing the water off of his face. “I know, but that doesn’t mean that I have to be happy that it was your only option. I think we’d all be happier if he wasn’t sick at all, but these are the cards that we’ve been dealt.”

Bruce hums and glances over at Tim, who is fast asleep. Well, at least he seems more comfortable now.

There’s the sound of shuffling in the hallway and then Dick sticks his head into the room. One of Alfred’s knitted blankets is draped around his shoulders. “Can I come in?”

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Bruce points out.

“Come in,” Alfred says, and Dick walks in. At Bruce’s look, Alfred smoothly tells him, “I’ve found that in my years of raising very rambunctious young boys, sometimes it’s best to let them do what they’ve asked to do before you try to usher them back to bed.”

Leslie snickers. Even Dick looks amused, although he’s more subdued than usual. “I won’t be long. I just need to do one thing and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

He heads over to the armchair in the corner where two stuffed dogs, one smaller and one larger, are neatly perched on the seat. Dick scoops up the stuffed animals and shuffles over to Tim’s bed, where he carefully tucks one dog under each of Tim’s arms. Satisfied, he leans forward to kiss Tim’s forehead.

“Give him one from me too!” Jason calls from the doorway.

Dick glances up and rolls his eyes at his brother, but pecks Tim on the forehead again anyways. Smiling, he straightens. “All right, I’m good,” he says before breezing out of the room.

Leslie waits a minute before she pats Bruce’s shoulder, smiling. “You’ve raised some good kids.”

“I don’t know if it’s entirely my doing. They were good before I met them,” he deflects.

Alfred exchanges a look with Leslie. “Perhaps it’s our influence, then. After all, we’re the main bastions of common sense in this household.”

Leslie nods. “I think you’re right, Al. Bruce didn’t inherit all of our common sense--” he rolls his eyes at that, “--but I guess he learned how to raise children well.”

Alfred smiles, eyes crinkling.“I suppose you’re right.”

* * *

Bruce drags in an air mattress and sleeps on the floor to keep an eye on him. Alfred gets Leslie set up in one of the guest rooms and they both deny her offers to monitor Tim overnight. As the one with the most irreparably terrible sleep schedule, Bruce is the best suited to sleeping in Tim’s room. He can still get his rest but wake up quickly if Tim needs anything.

Mercifully, Tim mostly sleeps through the night. It’s a blessing, considering how badly the boy needs his rest. Alfred manages to coax him into eating some applesauce for breakfast, but he can’t keep it down. It’s a good thing that they’ve already hooked him up to IV fluids; otherwise, the poor thing would have been even more terribly dehydrated by now.

Tim spends most of the day half-out of it when he isn’t sleeping. He stretches in a way that suggests body aches, so Leslie increases his dose of liquid tylenol. Still, he isn’t able to keep much food down. By the time that the evening rolls around, Bruce has to hold Tim’s hair out of his face while he throws up into a plastic trash can because he’s too weak to make it to the bathroom. It’s definitely a low point, but Alfred and many, many online articles tell him that the third day of the flu is usually the worst. Bruce clings to the hope that the rest of the week will be better; he doesn’t think that he can stand seeing this poor, sweet kid be so sick for much longer.

* * *

When Tim wakes up, he feels like shit. It’s less of an aching pain and more of an utter exhaustion. He would love to lay in bed for a few more hours and maybe take a nap, but his body has other ideas. Tim jolts upright, coughing. Someone starts rubbing his back as he continues to cough and holds a tissue in front of his mouth until his lungs have finally finished expelling some gross green mucus.

Tim glances up at his mysterious helper and finds Dr. Thompkins tossing the now-disgusting tissue into the trash.

“Hi, Tim,” she says, smiling. “How are you feeling?”

He blinks. “Uh,” he rasps with a voice that’s partially gone, “Fine?”

Dr. Thompkins raises an eyebrow at him. “Do you have any nausea? Body aches?”

“Nope, I’m good,” he replies quickly.

Her face softens. “Take a minute and really check in with your body, and then let me know if you need to change your answer.”

Tim frowns, reevaluating. “I guess-- I’m a little nauseous?”

“Do you think you could handle some applesauce?” She asks calmly.

Tim’s stomach rumbles hungrily in reply. “Yeah, I think so.”

Dr. Thompkins hands him a bowl of applesauce and a spoon. Tim nibbles on it and finds that he’s actually a little bit hungry. He manages to eat half the bowl and sets it aside just before the door to his bedroom opens and Bruce sticks his head inside.

“Tim?” he asks, already scanning over Tim for injuries. Whatever he sees must pacify him, because his shoulders relax minutely. “Hey, buddy.”

“Bruce,” he rasps. “Hi.”

Bruce slides into the room, leaving the door ever so slightly open behind him. “How are you feeling? Better?”

Tim nods. “Yeah.”

Taking a seat at the edge of Tim’s bed, Bruce runs a hand through Tim’s hair. “Good. We were pretty worried about you for a while there, sweetheart.”

Tim frowns, looking between Dr. Thompkins and Bruce. “Why, what happened?”

“You had a fever of one hundred and four,” Dr. Thompkins explains. “Bruce had to call me and get you into a body temperature bath to lower your temperature. We’ve been giving you liquid tylenol and fluids through an IV.”

“Oh,” Tim says, nose scrunching as he thinks.

“Your fever broke a few hours ago,” Bruce adds helpfully.

Whatever Tim’s mouth was going to say next without his permission is interrupted by another coughing fit. This time, it’s Bruce who rubs his back as Tim coughs up gunk.

“There you go, sweetheart,” Bruce murmurs. “I know this sucks.”

Tim nods, eyes watering from coughing. He tries to rub at his eyes but it pulls at the IV line in his hand until Bruce reaches over to tug at the line, giving him more slack.

“You’ll likely be coughing for a while longer. Coughing will help clear out your lungs, so cough as much as you need to,” Dr. Thompkins says, not unkindly, as she scribbles something on a clipboard.

“Okay,” Tim croaks.

“If you want, we could turn on your television so you could watch something,” Bruce says as he strokes Tim’s hair. “Or you could rest more. It’s up to you.”

Tim shrugs, staring at his covers before finally mumbling, “I think I want to rest.”

Bruce nods and kisses his forehead. “All right. Want me to stay here?”

He freezes, hands twisting in his blankets. Having Bruce here would be nice, but he’s fine now so he doesn’t really _need_ him to stay. Besides, he doesn’t need to be comforted like a little baby.

“I’ll be okay,” Tim replies neutrally.

Bruce watches him for a long moment. “All right. I’ll come by in an hour to check on you, okay?”

“Okay,” Tim whispers.

Smoothing Tim’s hair out of his face, Bruce kisses his forehead before standing up. “Sleep well,” he says before slipping out of the room.

“Do you want me to grab you anything? Blankets, pillows, water…?” Dr. Thompkins asks gently.

Tim shakes his head and lays back down. “No, thank you,” he replies, the last word dissolving into a yawn.

She nods. “Okay. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

Tim hums and before he knows it, he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, the corrugated [S](https://chocolateandsilver.tumblr.com/), and to the very barbecued [goldkirk](https://goldkirk.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Fun fact: an ice bath will actually raise the temperature of someone with a fever! It cools down the outside of their body but not their core temperature, so their body will raise its temperature to warm up their limbs. The trick to lower a fever, according to google, is actually a normal body temperature bath to gradually lower your core temperature. 
> 
> Another note: if you're completely submerged in water, you'll remain at a comfortable temperature. However, if you're half out of the water like Bruce was, then evaporation will make you get super cold! 
> 
> Thank you all for reading! Your pain and screaming fuels me. <3


	22. you're starting forest fires (you start them just to feel the heat)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slowly but surely, Tim recovers from the flu and eases himself back into his normal routine. He's finally allowed to return to school; however, all is not well after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Forest Fires by Lauren Aquilina.
> 
> This chapter was pretty cathartic to write. Please bear in mind that it does get intense in places, so I highly advise heeding the content warnings!
> 
>  **CWs:** a fairly vivid portrayal of frustration and self-hatred due to academics and grades, engagement in self-injurious/dangerous behavior while in a meltdown, and use of a safety hold. There are lots of very intense emotions in this chapter, so please take care of yourselves!! Step away and take a break if you need to-- the fic will still be here when you come back. <3

It takes a few more days for Tim to start feeling normal again. Bit by bit, the exhaustion and weird foggy sensation in his head recede until the only symptom he’s left with is coughing. Dick is allowed to return to Blüdhaven on Sunday night, but Bruce insists on keeping Tim out of school until Tuesday.

“Rest will help you recover more quickly,” Bruce explains gently as Tim leans back in the Batcomputer chair. He was only allowed down into the Batcave because he was getting restless, so he has to make sure that he’s on his best behavior so Bruce doesn’t banish him from the cave for the next few days.

“I guess,” Tim mumbles, staring down at his feet.

Bruce swivels his chair so he’s facing Tim. “I know that we’re technically through the twenty four hour period after your fever breaking so you’re no longer contagious, but I really think that giving you a few extra days to recover will be beneficial.”

Pausing, Tim squints up at Bruce. “The twenty four hour what?”

“You’re still contagious for twenty four hours after your fever breaks,” Bruce replies evenly, his flinty gaze fixed on Tim.

Tim grips the arms of the chair before forcing his hands to relax. “Oh,” he says, trying to school his voice into something neutral.

Now Bruce is watching him with his head tilted ever so slightly. “You’re also not supposed to go to school for twenty four hours after throwing up.”

Staring at the Batcomputer instead of Bruce, Tim chooses to hum instead of reply. Finally, Bruce seems to give up on trying to-- question him, or whatever, and instead leans back in his chair.

“I’ll be home on Monday and Tuesday too. How about I show you some more casework on those days?” Bruce offers casually.

Tim glances back at Bruce and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s a good plan,” he says quickly, forcing himself to sound casual.

Bruce smiles. “All right. Let’s finish looking at this report and then get you into bed, okay?”

Tim knows better than to argue, so he just nods and swings his feet excitedly. Not going to school sucks, but at least he’ll be able to look at cases with Batman.

* * *

Bruce told him that he doesn’t need to worry about school right now, but Tim is missing almost a week of school. It can’t hurt to read _Romeo & Juliet _instead of going to bed like he said he would, right? After all, he has an essay on the book due on Friday and he doesn’t want to fall too far behind his classwork.

What Bruce doesn’t know can’t hurt him.

* * *

Wednesday marks Tim’s first day back at school since catching the flu. For lunch, Alfred packs him a turkey and cheese sandwich-- his favorite. He eats it in his usual corner of the library while debating which superpower is best with Jason. For perhaps the first time since the past week, Tim feels _normal_.

Classes go okay. His teachers don’t necessarily slam him with missed work. It’s closer to lightly bludgeoning him, but it’s still a lot. Tim spends that most of that first afternoon and evening hunched over chemistry notes at his desk. At around eight o’clock, a knock on the door draws him away from his work.

Swiveling to face the door, Tim calls, “Hello?”

“Tim?” Bruce steps through the doorway. “Hi, sport. I was wondering if you wanted to go stargaze on the roof with us to celebrate your first day back at school.”

Tim blinks. “But-- I have homework. And I didn’t really do anything today. I just… went to school.”

“Your homework will still be here when you get back,” Bruce points out. “And returning to school is worth celebrating, considering how hard you had to fight to get there. You’ve had a rough week, so why not do something nice?”

Frowning, Tim gnaws on his lip as he thinks. Bruce merely leans against the doorframe and waits.

“Jason and Ace will be joining us too,” he adds. “And we’ll have plenty of pillows and blankets.”

Finally Tim sighs and sets down his pencil. “Okay,” he agrees, “But only for a little while. I have homework.”

Bruce nods, and Tim lets him guide him out of his room and over to the window at the end of the hall. “I’ll go first and then haul you up,” he says, opening the window and easily climbing out. A moment later, a pair of hands dangle down in front of the window.

Tim clambers out onto the windowsill, gripping the edge of the window, before grabbing Bruce’s hands. With surprisingly little effort, Bruce hauls him up and onto the roof. They scramble away from the edge and closer to the center of the flat portion of the roof where Jason and Ace are already laying down in the middle of a pile of blankets. Several thermoses sit next to the blankets.

“Oh, you’re finally here,” Jason says in greeting. His eyes are hidden behind a pair of sleek black goggles. “The meteor shower is about to start.”

Tim peers up at the sky. Only a few stars are visible through Gotham’s pollution. “I don’t see anything?”

Bruce hands Tim a pair of what look oddly like night vision goggles. “Try looking through these,” he suggests with a smile.

Fastening the goggles to his head, Tim looks up again and nearly gasps. “Whoah,” he whispers as the Milky Way twinkles before him.

“These are an old prototype from Wayne Tech. They cut through most light pollution. Great for astronomers and amateur stargazers,” Bruce says as he pulls on a pair of the goggles. “Come on, let’s lay down and watch.”

Tim lays down on the blanket on Ace’s other side. He stares at the sea stars twinkling above him, and then-- a flash of light streaks across the sky. And then another, and another.

“The meteor shower will continue to pick up over the next few minutes and should last for about an hour.” Bruce lays down on Jason’s other side and reaches an arm out to lightly ruffle Tim’s hair. “It should give you plenty of time to finish your homework.”

“Yeah,” Tim breathes, still gawking up at the sky.

Wrapped in blankets to ward off the chilly January air, they spend the next hour laying on the roof as Bruce patiently points out Vega glittering in Lyra, Cygnus the swan, and Venus and Neptune. He explains the myths behind the different constellations during the lulls in the meteor shower. Tim buries one hand in Ace’s fur and the other in the blanket cocooning him as he soaks in the information, watching bits of light streak across the sky hundreds of miles above.

* * *

They end up staying out on the roof for an hour longer than planned, but Tim can’t find it in himself to be mad. Not when his shoulders feel so much lighter when he climbs back in through the window. His chest feels like there’s something big and warm inside, like he swallowed a star.

* * *

The rest of the week passes quickly.

Tim has an English essay due on Friday that he starts cranking out so he can begin writing his next Jeffrey Anderson article. Since he took a nearly whole week off to recover from the flu, he’s a little bit behind his normal posting schedule. After posting an article weighing the merits of nationally sponsored superheroes, Tim checks the email associated with his Jeffrey Anderson LinkedIn account.

* * *

To: Jeffrey Anderson <janderson@anderson.com>

From: Charlie Phillips <c_phillips@gargoylenews.com>

_January 25th, 3:37 PM (6 days ago)_

Subject: Comment on ongoing story

Dear Mr. Anderson,

My name is Charlie Phillips and I’m a reporter at Gargoyle News. We understand that you are the author of the article _Crime and Corruption: Vigilantes’ Role in Curbing Police Misconduct._ Are you available to comment on how your article relates to the upcoming trials of the three Gotham City police officers indicted on charges of criminal conspiracy, solicitation, bribery, and obstruction of justice?

Sincerely,

Charlie Phillips

Reporter, Gargoyle News

* * *

Tim looks at the email, rubs his eyes, and then looks again. Huh. Gargoyle News is a pretty small newspaper, but it doesn’t write garbage stories. They’re reasonably well-respected; he’s pretty sure that he’s seen Bruce reading their paper once or twice at breakfast. And _they_ want to talk to _him_?

At least this email isn’t about a job interview. Theoretically, he could reply to the request for comment and still keep his actual identity a secret, but what if word gets out that he replies to things? What if more people start asking him for comments in the future? He would have to talk to a bunch of people over email _and_ pretend like he’s not thirteen years old.

No thank you. Tim archives the email.

* * *

His English teacher hands back their essays back on Tuesday. It’s one of those February days where the sky can’t decide if it wants to rain or snow, so all of the sidewalks are covered in disgusting brown-gray slush. While he was walking from the drop-off area to the front entrance of the school that morning, he accidentally stepped into a slush puddle. The disgusting slurry soaked into the edges of his pants and his socks, and he’s pretty sure that there’s a grain of rock salt in his right shoe. Tim kind of wants to claw his own feet off just to get rid of the terrible, _horrible_ sensation of damp socks and pants that are slightly stiff from the salty slush.

He stares at the blank back of his essay and takes a deep breath. Some of his classmates are chattering nearby, but he ignores it as he turns the paper over to see his grade, and--

Seventy. He got a _seventy_.

Absurdly, Tim feels his eyes start to water. He blinks several times to clear them. What’s he going to do, cry like a little baby in the middle of class? If his classmates see him crying, they’d ask if he did badly on the paper and Tim doesn’t need more people thinking that he’s stupid. Absolutely not.

He tucks the paper into his English folder with the unassuming blank back of the paper facing outward to hide his grade. All he needs to do is make it through the rest of the school day and then he can retreat to his room.

Tim takes another deep breath and mentally stifles his desire to scream. He feels… fine. Completely fine, actually. It doesn’t even feel like he wants to cry anymore.

He largely spaces out during the rest of his classes. Lunch with Jason is quiet, but only because Tim claims that he needs to catch up on missed work and sticks his nose in his algebra textbook. Jason shrugs and starts playing games on his phone.

The rest of the day passes both incredibly slowly and incredibly quickly, and then Alfred is driving them back from school and Tim is stepping through the front doors of Wayne Manor.

“Hey, why don’t we do homework in B’s study?” Jason suggests.

Tim would rather gargle a liter of alpaca spit, but it’s not like he can _refuse_. It would be rude. So instead, he nods. “Sure, that’s a good idea.”

And that’s how they end up in Bruce’s study. As usual, Tim sits on the couch with his notes in his lap as Jason finds a clear portion of the floor to sprawl out on. For a while, they work in comfortable silence. Tim reviews his history notes for an upcoming quiz and Jason scribbles down math equations.

Unfortunately, the quiet peace doesn’t last forever.

Bruce comes strolling into the den, still dressed in his button-up and slacks from work. With a sigh, he takes a seat on the couch next to Tim and throws his arm over the back of the couch. “Hey, kids. How was your day?”

“Good,” Jason says from the floor. “I made a bunch of progress on my art project.”

“That’s fantastic, sport. You’ll have to show me pictures of it.” Bruce smiles at Jason before turning to Tim. “How about you, Tim? How was school?”

Without looking up from his notes, Tim freezes.

He has two options: one, he could lie to Bruce Wayne, the literal Batman, about his essay grade and let Bruce find out about it later. Tim’s parents tended to constantly check his online grade report, but Tim hasn’t figured out what Bruce’s strategy is yet. On the other hand, he could go with the second option, which is to tell Bruce about his essay grade now and not give him time to devise a punishment. Plus, Tim wouldn’t have to wait for Bruce to discover the grade.

The second option is the most strategically sound, so Tim wordlessly reaches into his English folder and pulls out the essay. He hands it to Bruce that are surprisingly steady, especially considering how Tim is pretty sure that Bruce is about to literally murder him.

“What’s this?” Bruce asks, brow furrowed as he takes the paper.

“My essay,” Tim says flatly. His head is made up of a thousand alarms all screaming _BAD, BAD, BAD, DANGER,_ like he doesn’t already _know_ that.

Bruce takes his reading glasses out of his pocket and slips them on. “Let’s see here….”

Tim clasps his hands in his lap and stares at the ground. The study is silent other than the occasional sound of Bruce turning the page and Tim’s heart hammering in his ribs. His entire body feels like it’s on fire, like it’s a string wound too tight.

He’s stupid, he’s so _stupid_. He should have been more careful when he was writing the essay. Of course it was going to end up like this! Now, he had a bad grade and Bruce is going to be mad at him and probably yell at him, and Tim really doesn’t want to be yelled at. He just hopes that Bruce won’t take away his phone or ground him. And what is Bruce going to think of him now that he’s seen the grade? Tim wants to crawl into a hole and never, ever let anyone see him ever again.

Finally, just when Tim is pretty sure that he’s about to spontaneously combust from waiting, Bruce looks up from the paper. "This is very well-written, bud. It looks like you just had some trouble with interpreting the book. I bet that it's because you were sick. Do you want one of us to help you talk through it next time?"

Tim blinks. He’s not being yelled at, but-- he got a bad grade. He was stupid and he got a bad grade because his work was stupid. Writing is supposed to be the one thing that he’s actually good at, and now he can’t even do that. Instead of yelling, Bruce is… _patronizing_ him like he needs his hand to be held through fixing his bad writing. Like he’s _stupid._

Tim’s vision goes red and he clenches his fists. “I don’t need _help,_ ” he spits with a surprising amount of vitriol. “What I _need_ is to stop being so fucking STUPID!” Grabbing his history notes from his lap, he springs to his feet and hurls the entire folder at the opposing wall. They hit it with a light smack, but it’s not nearly as loud as Tim wants it to be. Instead of being satisfying, it only makes him angrier. He barely notices when Jason stands up and bolts out of the room.

“Tim,” Bruce says, but Tim ignores him. He grabs his backpack instead and sticks his hand inside, pulling out the first thing he touches.

“I’m supposed to be _good_ at this,” Tim snarls as he yanks out his algebra textbook. “But I got a seventy. A fucking _seventy_ , like an _idiot_!” He punctuates the sentence by flinging his textbook across the room. It hits the wall with an extremely satisfying smack before falling to the ground with a clunk.

Next, Tim pulls out his chemistry notes. These, he throws onto the floor and stomps on. “Why can’t people just tell me the TRUTH! I know what I am! I know what you think of me!”

He slams his backpack on the ground before whirling around to face Bruce. “Why can’t you ever be HONEST with me?” he screams. “STOP LYING TO ME AND TELLING ME THAT I'M GOOD AT THINGS WHEN I'M NOT! I'M NOT GOOD!”

“Tim,” Bruce says again, so calmly. Infuriatingly calmly.

Tim lets out a shriek of rage and turns to one of the big, heavy wooden bookcases next to the couch. He lashes out with a kick, but then his foot collides with the wood and it _hurts._

“FUCK!” Tim howls. His foot burns, but he can’t force himself to pay attention to the pain. The twisting, snarling beast tearing through his brain drowns it out, overpowering all of his other thoughts until everything is sucked in the storm.

Behind him, Bruce slowly rises to his feet, face set in a calm mask. Oh no, they are _not_ doing this right now. Tim needs to-- to scream until his throat is hoarse, to punch something, to rip apart all of his notes and then burn them. He needs to _destroy_ , and Bruce is so calm that Tim wants to scream at him until Bruce is just as angry as Tim is. Why isn’t Bruce _angry?_

Tim throws himself onto the carpet and slams his fists into the ground. Some small, far away part of his mind registers the pain radiating through his hands, but he ignores it. Hitting the ground feels _right_. Everything inside his head is on fire, and now everything outside can enter the howling flames too.

“Tim, sweetheart,” Bruce says with a sickening calm. “You’re hurting yourself. How about we move downstairs to the mats so you can be safer?”

His words only serve to make Tim angrier. Face contorting into a snarl, he brings his hands up again. “NO!” he shrieks, smashing his hands into the ground again to emphasize his point.

Bruce’s brow furrows slightly, and something inside Tim glows with twisted joy that he’s finally managed to elicit a reaction from Bruce. “Tim,” he says again. “This is unsafe. We need to find a safer outlet for you.”

Making direct eye contact with Bruce, Tim sits up before slamming his entire torso onto the ground. Pain explodes in his elbow and shoulder, but then Bruce lunges for Tim. Tim might be thirteen and small and full of rage, but Bruce is Batman. Before Tim can hit the ground again, Bruce grabs his wrists. In retaliation, Tim tries to sit up so he can slam his body into the ground again, struggling against Bruce’s grip.

“I’m very sorry about this, bud,” Bruce says through gritted teeth before he abruptly flips them so Bruce is laying on his back with Tim held tightly with his back to Bruce. There are hands on his wrists and Bruce’s legs are wrapped over and around Tim’s, restraining him.

Tim wants to _scream_ , so he does. Loudly. And then he jabs an elbow into Bruce’s ribs at the same time that he drives his heel into Bruce’s calf. The elbow to the ribs elicits a soft grunt, so Tim does it again. Bruce’s hands tighten around Tim’s wrists in response.

“Fuck!” Tim screeches. “Fuck you!”

“Sorry, sweetheart, sorry. I hear you.” And then Bruce’s hands shift so his fingers are clasped with Tim’s. He’s still restrained, but at least he’s no longer being grabbed. Some of the weight eases from Tim’s chest, but the anger is still there.

With a scream, he thrashes about, unsuccessfully trying to loosen Bruce’s hold. When that doesn’t work, he lets loose another scream and tries to bash his head back into Bruce’s ribs. It doesn’t do much other than make Tim howl in anger and slight pain. On the bright side, Bruce does whisper, “Shit.” It makes Tim feel slightly better, but only a little.

A pair of footsteps hurry into the room. “Alf, quick, we need a pillow behind his head,” Bruce says, a tinge of worry in his voice.

From his vantage point on the floor, Tim can barely see Alfred grab a pillow from the couch and then hurry over to where Bruce and Tim are lying on the floor.

“No!” Tim snaps, straining against Bruce’s restraints. “NO!” He tries to keep his pressed against Bruce’s chest because he _can_ , but then Alfred manages to gently pry his head forward just enough to shove a pillow behind it.

Letting out another shriek, Tim arches his back and tries to throw himself over Bruce’s side and back onto the floor. Still, Bruce holds tight. Alfred retreats to somewhere Tim can’t see him right as tears threaten to overtake his eyes again. This only serves to make Tim even angrier. He can’t even keep himself from crying, he’s stupid, _stupid--_

“I HATE YOU!” Tim screeches. “I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU!” He thrashes in Bruce’s grip as tears start to spill out of his eyes. “WHY WON’T YOU LET ME GO HOME? I WANT TO GO HOME!”

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Bruce says from behind him.

“I HATE IT HERE!” he howls in response.

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m sorry,” Bruce says again, gentleness and helplessness all mixed into his voice. Tim hates it. He _hates_ it, why won’t Bruce just be angry at him? Why won’t he just punish him already and get it over with?

In response, Tim screams and uselessly bangs his head against the soft cushion behind him. He continues to struggle against Bruce’s gentle but unyielding hold for the next five, ten, twenty minutes. Bruce continues to apologize and murmur reassurances to him, but it doesn’t do anything to quell Tim’s red-hot burning anger. Everything in his head is storming and burning, but Bruce is just _calm_ and it’s-- it’s _infuriating_.

So he continues to fight until he doesn’t have the energy to move his limbs anymore. Finally, _finally_ , Tim lays his head back against the pillow and lets out one last strangled noise from his raw throat before giving up.

He lays there limply as Bruce transfers both of Tim’s hands into his much larger hand while his now-free hand reaches up to stroke Tim’s hair. “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Bruce says gently, and Tim wants to--

He wants to _cry._

He lets out a pathetic half-wail, half-whine and wriggles, pressing himself back into Bruce’s chest.

“I know, honey. I know it sucks. You couldn’t help it,” Bruce soothes, running his hand through Tim’s hair. “I’m going to sit up now, all right? We can get you a little more comfortable.” He sits up and scoots back until his back is resting against the couch with Tim curled up in his lap. With one hand still interlaced with both of Tim’s, he keeps petting Tim’s hair soothingly.

Now that they’re upright, Tim can see the mess that he made. The floor is littered with papers and his algebra textbook is leaning against the wall, partially open. Some of its pages look wrinkled. And then there are his history notes laying in the middle of the floor--

“Oh,” Tim whispers, eyes wide. “I--” he sucks in a breath, but Bruce quickly reels him in closer and tucks his head under Bruce’s chin.

“Shhh, it’s okay. You’re not in trouble, sweetie,” Bruce murmurs. “We’re just going to sit here for a bit until you’re feeling better, and then we’re going to get you some tea with honey for your throat.”

“But--” Tim rasps with a throat raw from screaming for nearly thirty minutes straight, “But I.…” Words scatter in his mind like minnows, leaving him speechless. He can only let himself be pulled back so he’s leaning against Bruce’s chest as tears leak from his eyes.

Bruce presses a kiss to the top of his head. “All of your emotions had to come out somehow, and they chose this way. It happens sometimes, buddy. We can’t always help it.”

“But I made a _mess_ ,” he rasps, clasping and unclasping his hands. “And all of my notes, I… _I did that_.” Tim jerks his chin towards his scattered, crumpled notes and looks back at Bruce with wide eyes.

“We’ll fix it,” Bruce says easily, lightly scratching his nails over Tim’s scalp. “They’re just things, and things can be fixed. We can copy them, or tape them together, or repair them. What I’m concerned about is if you’re feeling better. I’m going to let go of your hands now, honey, but I’m going to take them again if you start doing things that could accidentally hurt you. Does that sound fair?”

Tim watches Bruce’s face, looking for a trick, but he can’t find one. Finally, Tim gives a little nod and Bruce releases his hands. With his newly freed arm, Bruce wraps one arm around Tim’s middle so he’s being gently held against Bruce’s chest.

“I know that you must be having lots of emotions right now. How about we sit here for a while and work on processing them? It might help you feel better.”

Unsure if he can trust his own words, Tim half-shrugs in response.

“Okay. Let’s start with some deep breathing exercises. They might sound silly, but Dick and Jason have both found them helpful. I use them a lot too.” Bruce gently removes the pillow from behind Tim’s head and places it back on the couch. “Put your hand on your stomach, right above mine and take a deep breath.”

Tim follows Bruce’s instructions and inhales, feeling his chest rise and fall as he breathes.

“Keep taking nice, deep breaths. Try to pay attention to the way your body moves as you breathe. Your lungs are expanding and contracting so they can get oxygen to bring to your brain and muscles, and then exhaling the excess carbon dioxide. That’s your body working to keep you alive, bud,” Bruce says gently.

Tim sits there, feeling his heart thump in his chest as his lungs keep breathing, feeling the warmth in his chest and face, feeling the hot wave of shame roll over him. And then it’s too much, he feels too much, and even years of experience can’t stop him from bursting into tears. He curls up, knees against his chest, as Bruce turns him so his side is pressed against Bruce’s chest.

“There you go, sweetheart. I’ve got you, it’s going to be okay. We’ll figure this out together,” Bruce murmurs, which only makes Tim cry harder. He nearly chokes on his sobs as Bruce rubs his back with one hand and smooths his fingers through Tim’s hair with the other. “Just let it all out. It’ll help you feel better, I promise.”

By the time that Tim’s tears finally die down, he feels like a wreck. His eyes are raw from crying and his throat still hurts from screaming, and now his face is covered in snot and tears. After a minute of subdued sniffling, Alfred crouches next to them and dabs at Tim’s face with a tissue.

“Sorry,” Tim croaks, but Alfred just brushes some of his hair out of his face.

“No apologies needed, Master Tim,” Alfred says gently. “These things happen sometimes. I can assure you that it is not the first time that someone in this house has had an episode like this, nor will it be the last.”

Bruce hums and the sound reverberates pleasantly into Tim’s chest. “I seem to recall burning my homework on a particularly bad week, back in the day.”

Alfred chuckles. “How could I forget?” He passes a mug of tea to Tim. “This will help your throat.”

Tim clutches the mug in both hands, letting it warm his palms. “Thank you,” he mumbles.

Alfred smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “It’s my pleasure, Master Tim.” He takes a seat next to them on the floor, knees brushing Bruce’s, and picks up his own mug of tea. “I’ve found that there’s very little that a good mug of tea can’t fix. Why don’t we sit here for a while, have a cup of tea, and then start on sorting out everything else?”

Tim gives a little nod and stares into his cup. The room falls quiet, save for the sound of Tim’s occasional sniffling. Bruce keeps running one hand through Tim’s hair in rhythmic, soothing motions. Eventually, Tim drinks the last of his tea and Alfred gently takes the mug from his hands.

“I should go clean up,” Tim says hoarsely and tries to stand up. His body, tired and sore from throwing things and fighting and struggling against Bruce’s iron grip, does not want to comply. He topples back into Bruce’s lap with a soft _oof_.

Bruce rubs his back. “Why don’t we go to the den and find something relaxing to do?”

“But. I have homework due tomorrow,” Tim points out.

“Buddy, I really don’t think that it’s a good idea for you to go to school tomorrow,” Bruce says gently. “Your voice is going to take a while to come back and you’re probably going to be sore tomorrow. Plus, I’m willing to bet that you’re developing a nasty dehydration headache.”

Come to think of it, Tim’s head does kind of hurt. Huh.

“Master Tim, if I may,” Alfred adds, “We have a strict policy of taking time to properly recover in this house. If you stay home from school tomorrow, you will be healthier, happier, and better able to complete your work when you return to your school.”

“Oh,” Tim says quietly.

Alfred smiles and places a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Our goal, my dear, is nothing other than your health and happiness. Let’s take a day to sort things out, hmm? School will still be there when you’re ready to go back.”

Chewing on his lip as he thinks, Tim finally looks up. “I mean-- I don’t know if it’s a good idea because it’s… it’s _school_ , but. If it’s the rule.” He glances between Bruce and Alfred, watching their reactions carefully, but they both only smile.

“In that case, let’s get you into the den,” Bruce says as he stands up, hoisting Tim into his arms. Too tired to protest, Tim lets his head drop so it’s resting against Bruce’s chest.

Bruce tucks him into a couch in the den, where they spend the rest of the afternoon watching the latest season of Queer Eye. Even if Tim’s head still feels like a mess, the den is calm and relatively quiet, and Bruce stays the whole time. He doesn’t _leave_. So even if things feel kind of terrible and weird and Tim threw a tantrum like a four year old and he has to miss school tomorrow _again_ …. At least he’s not alone, at least for a little while.

* * *

Not for the first time this week, Tim feels like shit when he wakes up. His throat _hurts_ and his body feels like he went a round with Bane. When he tries to stand up, his legs wobble like jelly but ultimately hold. He dresses in normal clothes, not his school uniform, and goes down to breakfast.

His day is pretty okay. Bruce is elbow-deep in the hood of the Batmobile and lets Tim do homework while curled up on a comfortable couch in the corner of the machine shop. Sometimes, Bruce will wander over as he cleans grease off his hands with an old rag and ask what Tim is up to. Alfred keeps him well-supplied with honeyed tea to soothe his throat and Ace spends most of the day curled up at Tim’s feet like a soft, furry footwarmer.

He doesn’t want to make anyone go out of their way for him, but spending the day down in the Batcave is kind of nice. Even though Tim had to miss school today, maybe this isn’t so bad.

* * *

On Friday evening, Bruce takes Tim out on patrol. Everyone piles into the Batmobile and Dick calls shotgun, leaving Jason and Tim to sit in the back.

“Tim, do you want control of the AUX cord?” Jason asks.

“No, it’s okay, you can do it,” Tim replies.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Jason looks skeptical. “Okay, if you’re sure… do you have any song requests?”

Tim blinks as all of the songs he’s ever listened to in his life fly out of his head. “Uh.”

“Or an artist. Anything you want to listen to, really. We have backseat AUX privileges, after all.”

Racking his brain for song names and artists, Tim picks one at random. “Imagine Dragons?” That’s a safe choice, right?

“Oh, good choice, Timberly.” Jason nods and types something into his phone. “Cool, cool cool….” A moment later, the opening chords of Radioactive start filtering in through the Batmobile’s speakers. Dick perks up and starts humming along with Jason until the lyrics start.

“I’M WAKING UP,” Dick scream-sings, “TO ASH AND DUST--”

“I wipe my brow and I sweat my rust,” Jason joins in with a much more normal singing voice. “I’m breathing in the chemicals--”

Both of them exaggeratedly suck in air, though Dick sort of wheezes as he tries to keep himself from laughing. Although Bruce doesn’t turn around enough for Tim to get a good look at him, he’s pretty sure that Bruce is smiling ever so slightly as he drives.

Twenty minutes later, Jason and Tim are being dropped off near the docks. “Robin,” Batman says, voice low and gravelly and somehow familiar all at once, “I want you and Shadow to surveil the docks. They’ve been suspiciously quiet lately and I want to make sure that there aren’t any new arms shipments coming in under the radar.”

Jason nods, face settling into something more serious and composed. Something more Robin. “Got it, Batman.”

Batman nods, just once. “Call us if you need anything. Nightwing and I will radio in and let you know when we’re coming back.”

“Have fun!” Nightwing adds with a cheery wave, and then the Batmobile is pulling away and speeding back into the night.

Robin turns to Tim. “Are you ready for some good old-fashioned surveillance?”

Tim smiles just a little. “I think so.”

“Well, let’s find somewhere to camp out. Let me know if you get hungry-- Agent A packed me some cookies for us.”

* * *

Batman and Nightwing return two and a half hours later. Neither of them seem obviously injured, but Nightwing is even more energetic than usual.

“Nightwing,” Batman says, and three heads swivel to look at him, “Why don’t you take these two out for some rooftop tag?”

“Really?” Nightwing asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Robin peers at Batman. “You’ll be fine here by yourself?”

Batman smiles. “I’ll be fine. I can radio in if I need any help.”

“Well, in that case,” Nightwing says, grinning, “Let’s go!” Still smiling, he turns and starts heading away from them, bounding over rooftops with ease. Robin and Tim chase after him, albeit at a slightly slower pace, although Nightwing seems more focused on how many cartwheels and flips he can do than how fast he can run.

They chase each other around on the rooftops for at least half an hour. Nobody keeps score, presumably for Tim’s sake, but they’re all sweaty and grinning by the time that they make it back to the Batmobile. On the drive back to the manor, Jason plays Dancing Queen by ABBA and starts changing all of the lyrics.

“Discowing,” he belts out, “feel the beat from the Timbourine, oh yeah!”

Dick laughs so hard that he snorts.

“You can dance, you can fiiiiiiight, having the time of your life,” Jason continues, “Ooh, see that crime, watch that scene, digging the Discowing!”

By the time that they all stumble out of the Batmobile and into the showers, Dick is still laughing. As Tim peels off his special black body armor and steps into the shower, he finds himself smiling as he hums along to the beat of Dancing Queen.

* * *

Bit by bit, Bruce starts to step up Tim’s training. There are more early morning runs, more stretches, more body weight exercises. After over a month of living with the Waynes full-time, Tim’s appetite starts to improve. Alfred keeps handing him milkshakes and protein shakes along with regular food, but at least Tim doesn’t have to drink Bruce’s disgusting smoothie concoctions. He’s pretty sure that they would either kill him or burn out his esophagus, and he isn’t keen to find out which.

Jason helps him learn how to throw a proper punch without breaking his fingers. Dick teaches him new, more advanced stretches that make Tim question how any human being is supposed to be able to bend like that. Alfred shows him how to wrap his hands properly so he doesn’t split his knuckles while punching something. Ace naps in the corner and occasionally licks the sweat off of Tim’s hands and face whenever he sits down to take a break.

* * *

Some of the Bat training is more… unconventional than Tim expected.

One day, Bruce sticks him on a big foam swing and gives him a rope to pull so he can control where the swing goes. Then Bruce pushes the swing and Tim is flying through the air like he’s on the world’s weirdest carnival ride.

“Catch!” Jason shouts before lobbing a tennis ball at Tim.

It bounces off of his shoulder. “What,” Tim says helplessly, “are you doing.”

“Throwing tennis balls,” Jason replies cheerfully, throwing another one at Tim.

He just barely manages to catch this one and nearly falls off the foam swing and onto the mat below. _“Why_ ,” Tim asks.

“We’re building your coordination and sense of balance,” Bruce says calmly, tossing a tennis ball at Tim. “Remember how we’ve talked about proprioception?”

“Yes?” Tim replies as he fumbles a tennis ball, accidentally sending it rolling off the swing. “Wait. You mean--” he accidentally swats away another tennis ball instead of catching it, “This is supposed to be building my proprioception?”

Bruce nods, smiling. “Exactly.”

“Oh.” A tennis ball bounces off his hand and into his chest, but Tim manages to snatch it. “What do I do when I catch one?”

“Throw it at Jason,” Dick says immediately.

Bruce raises an eyebrow at Dick before replying, “You can just drop it.”

“All right.” Tim leans over to drop the ball onto the mat, nearly tumbling off of the foam swing in the process. “Shoot,” he hisses, leaning backwards in a desperate attempt to stay on the swing. It doesn’t work.

“Ow,” Bruce says helpfully when Tim’s butt hits the mat. He crouches next to Tim and offers him a hand up. “Are you all right, sport?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine,” Tim replies automatically.

Regarding him calmly, Bruce tilts his head. “Are you sure? Take a moment to check in with yourself.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Tim says as he heaves himself onto the awful, terrible, mildly fun swing again. “Come on, I can keep going.”

In response, another tennis ball sails by his ear. This one has a tiny bat drawn on it in black marker.

* * *

On one foggy February day, when Jason is out on Titans business, Bruce shows Tim how to escape different kinds of knots.

“It’s important to learn these things,” he says softly, like the air around them is full of something as fragile as spider webs and he’s afraid to speak too loudly lest he break them. “It could save your life one day.”

There’s something there, Tim thinks. There’s something hidden behind the heaviness in Bruce’s eyes and the way Dick leans against a stalagmite as he watches them, arms crossed. He’s not sure what it is, but it looms before him, all emptiness and negative space.

Tim doesn’t ask about it. He’s good at staying quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, the herringbone [S](https://chocolateandsilver.tumblr.com/), and to the polyester [goldkirk](https://goldkirk.tumblr.com/) for their help!!
> 
> I originally wanted to post this chapter a few days ago, but then I kind of got slammed by a bad brain week. Luckily, my head has finally calmed down enough for me to edit and post this. I hope that you enjoyed it and thank you for reading!! <3
> 
> Oh, and if you want to know when to expect future updates, I usually post approximate times on my tumblr (batfam-chaos). I typically try to update fairly consistently, but if my brain decides that it's time for another Trauma Week, then I'll post a heads up. There should be a link to my tumblr below.
> 
> EDIT 8/23/2020: I'm moving next week and I have to study for preliminary exams, so I likely won't have time to update the fic this week. Updates will resume in early September!


	23. had to lose my way to know which road to take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get worse before they get better.
> 
> or: Tim reaches a turning point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Roots by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> I'm back! Grad school classes have started, my preliminary exams are done (for now), and I'm moving into my new apartment later this week. As a heads up, updates will slow down a bit now that I'm in grad school. However, the fic is already completely written, so it's mostly a matter of editing it. :)
> 
>  **CWs:** fairly intense and emotional flashback, references to and discussions of past abuse, some dissociation. The flashback in particular might be upsetting or potentially triggering to some readers because it's pretty vivid and it references past physical abuse. Please take care of yourselves!!

“Master Dick, could you please grab a salad bowl?” Alfred asks as he stirs the pasta.

Dick smiles cheerily. “Sure thing!” In one smooth motion, he leaps onto the counter and opens the cabinet door. “Hmmm, where is it….”

“Master Dick. Do you recall all of the previous times that we have spoken about feet on the counter?”

“But if I don’t stand on it, I won’t be able to see it,” Dick points out easily. “Now, where are you hiding? ...Oh, there it is!” Grabbing the salad bowl, Dick backflips off the counter and lands on his feet. He holds the salad bowl above his head to stick the landing.

Jason claps loudly. “Bravo! Nine out of ten.”

Pouting, Dick hands the salad bowl to Alfred before dramatically leaning on his brother. “Only nine out of ten?”

“You get a ten out of ten when you give Bruce a heart attack,” Jason retorts.

Bruce looks up from his newspaper, which Tim is pretty sure is written in Russian. His reading glasses are still perched at the end of his nose. “Boys,” he says mildly, “Please don’t try to give me any more heart attacks than you normally do.”

“But Bruce, the most fun stunts to pull are the ones that give you a heart attack,” Dick says, smiling brightly.

Tim fidgets with the hem of his sleeve. “I thought your backflip was cool, Dick,” he says quietly.

Beaming, Dick leans down to wrap Tim in a hug from behind. “See, baby bird appreciates my talent,” he declares, pressing his cheek against the top of Tim’s head.

Tim pauses, unsure what to do. Finally, he reaches up and awkwardly pats Dick’s head. “...you’re welcome?” he tries.

“The littlest one in the nest,” Dick sings before bounding over to check on the pasta. A minute later, he returns with a massive dish of pasta in his hands. “Careful, hot dish, everyone out of my way, thank you!” He sets the dish down on the table and slides into his usual seat.

“Thank you, Dick,” Bruce says and receives a smile in reply.

Everyone begins serving themselves, although Bruce and Alfred both make a point to add more food to Tim’s plate whenever they add more to theirs. Dinner is full of its usual lively chatter: Jason and Alfred discuss some new Broadway play that’s apparently very good and Dick tells Bruce about some ridiculous thing that Starfire did earlier that week.

Tim largely stays quiet as he eats. The others try to draw him into their conversations, but he wriggles out of them when he can. Being quiet is what he’s used to; besides, it’s safer this way. The others don’t need to hear him ramble about photography or how much he wants to try throwing a batarang but how scared he is to ask.

Jason and Dick both simultaneously reach for the same piece of garlic bread and, realizing that they’re aiming for the same piece, change courses. Dick moves his hand out of the way and Jason aims for a different piece before leaning back to let Dick grab some. As he moves, Jason’s elbow knocks into his water glass. The glass flies out from the table, as if in slow motion, and crashes into the floor. Water and shards of glass spill everywhere, glittering under the kitchen lights.

Something in Tim’s chest is on fire, replacing his blood with lava. There is no air in his lungs, nothing in his body except for fire and burning. Sirens go off in his head. _Something bad is going to happen,_ they say. _Something bad, bad, BAD, BAD--_

Before he can think, Tim moves. He’s on his feet and his chair is pushed away from the table and his hands are out in front of him like he’s ready to catch something. Why does it feel like something bad is about to happen? Every molecule in his being is screaming at him and Tim is tense, he’s ready to _run_ , but he’s frozen in place. He can’t move, and now Bruce is slowly standing up and walking towards him, and Tim _can’t_ move.

“Tim, sweetheart,” Bruce says gently, hands held loosely at his sides. “Hey, buddy. How are you feeling?”

Bruce is going to hit him. They’re all in the main kitchen at Wayne Manor and all of the Waynes are there and they’re having pasta for dinner and a glass just broke on the floor and Bruce is going to hit him. It feels true, somehow, even if Bruce doesn’t lift his hands.

Tim is-- _afraid_. Even if Bruce doesn’t hit him, someone else will. He doesn’t want it to be Bruce-- he likes Bruce! Bruce likes him, he’s pretty sure. And he really, really doesn’t want someone to hit him.

“Tim?” Now Bruce’s brow is furrowed with concern. “Where are you right now, sweetie?”

Tim can’t reply. His mouth is frozen, his jaw clenched. He might as well not have one at all. All he can do is stare up at Bruce with wide eyes and try to brace himself for what he knows is coming. Something in Bruce’s face shifts and Tim squeezes his eyes shut, but nothing happens.

And nothing.

And nothing.

“It’s okay. It’s just me. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe here.”

Cautiously, Tim opens his eyes. He finds Bruce sitting cross-legged on the floor, away from the broken glass, with his hands resting palm up on his knees.

“There you are, honey. Can you tell me where you are right now?” Bruce asks kindly.

Tim flexes his fingers, eyes darting around the kitchen. “The kitchen.”

“And where’s the kitchen?”

Tim opens his mouth and then closes it. It’s-- he’s-- he’s here, in the kitchen. He’s in Drake Manor and his dad is marching angrily up to him, and he’s in Wayne Manor and Bruce is sitting on the floor. Words slip through his hands and get lost in the burning. All Tim can do is make a distressed whine and stare helplessly at Bruce.

“I know, honey. I bet that you’re scared and confused right now,” Bruce says gently. “You’re in Wayne Manor. I’m fostering you. It’s February and you’re thirteen years old.”

That may be all well and good, but Tim still can’t shake the feeling that _something is coming_. Something is going to happen and Tim knows exactly how it’s going to end.

“Please,” Tim forces out.

“Please what?” Bruce asks softly, brow furrowed.

“Please don’t hit me. I don’t-- I don’t want--” It’s getting harder to breathe. “Don’t _touch me_.”

There’s something deep and sad in Bruce’s eyes, but it vanishes in a flash. Before Tim can analyze it more, Jason speaks. “Tim, I love you so much, but I need to get out of this room.”

Tim frowns slightly and tilts his head, closing his shaking hands into fists.

“I’m going to stand up now, I’m going to walk over there,” Jason jerks his chin towards the main entrance to the kitchen, “And I’m going to leave. Okay? I’m going to stand up now.”

He stands up slowly and Tim flinches a little at the squeak of the chair as Jason pushes it out. Then he’s standing up, but he’s looking at the door instead of Tim. “I’m going to walk out now. I’m not going to come near you, all right?” With deliberate steps, Jason walks around the table while keeping his distance both from Tim and the broken glass. Then he walks out the door and he’s gone.

“Tim,” Bruce says calmly, drawing Tim’s attention back to him. “You’re safe here. We’re not going to hurt you, but we need to get you back with us. Can you name five things that you can see?”

Tim blinks and looks around. “You,” he says. “Alfred. The table. The oven. Um.” The broken glass on the floor draws his attention like it has its own gravitational field. Everything feels hot and Tim is burning, burning, burning and _something bad is going to happen_.

Bruce cocks his head, watching him, and Tim clenches his fists until his knuckles turn white. “I don’t--” he croaks. “I want it to stop.”

“Stop what?” Bruce asks carefully.

“The-- the _hitting_. I know it’s coming, I know it is, but--” Tim sucks in air and reaches up to sink his fingers into his hair. “I want it to _stop!_ ”

“You’re having a flashback, sweetheart,” Bruce says gently. “I know that it’s scary, but we’re going to get you through this.”

Instead of verbally replying, Tim lets out a pained wail and presses his hands to his face.

“I know, buddy. I know,” Bruce soothes. “Do you want to come sit with me? We can talk you through it.”

Everything in his head is so much that it’s hard to think, so Tim just blinks at Bruce for a moment before his brain makes a decision for him. He shuffles over and plops down on the glass-free floor in front of Bruce.

“Good job, Timmy.” Thankfully, Bruce doesn’t move his hands.

“I want it to _stop_ ,” Tim whispers desperately.

“I know, honey. I’m going to help you, okay?” Bruce says gently. “Can you tell me four things that you can touch?”

“Um.” Tim stares down at his hands. “My hands?” he replies hesitantly.

Smiling, Bruce nods. “Good. You just need three more things.”

“Um. Your hands?”

Without lifting his hands from where they rest atop his knees, Bruce wiggles his fingers a little in offering. Tim slides his hand into Bruce’s bigger, warmer hand and is rewarded with a light squeeze.

“The chairs,” Tim adds.

“Why don’t you touch them?” Bruce suggests.

Casting Bruce a somewhat incredulous look, Tim reaches out and grasps the leg of the wooden chair with his free hand before letting go. “And, um, my shirt?” At Bruce’s encouraging nod, Tim sinks his fingers into his own shirt for one, two, three seconds before lowering his hand.

“What about three things you can hear?”

“You,” Tim replies immediately before pausing to listen. “Your watch. And… the overhead lights?”

Bruce tilts his head slightly, regarding him carefully. “You have very good ears, bud.”

Tim ducks his head. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Now, what are two things you can smell?” Bruce prompts.

“Garlic and… fresh bread.”

Smiling, Bruce squeezes his hand again. “Good. Now, what do you taste?”

Tim frowns. “Um. The pasta?”

“Great job, sport. How are you feeling now?” Bruce watches him carefully as Tim blinks, glancing around the kitchen. It feels a lot less like something is about to jump out and attack him, but his chest is still tight and weird. Still, it’s better than it was a few minutes ago.

“I’m… okay? What was that?” Tim asks, looking back at Bruce with wide eyes.

“You had a flashback,” Bruce says gently. “Your brain was reminded of something that happened to you and decided to relive the feelings for a little while.”

“Oh.” Tim stares down at their linked hands.

Bruce squeezes Tim’s hand again. “Why don’t we move into the den and we can talk about it some more?”

Tim nods a little and they both stand up. Without letting go of Tim’s hand, Bruce leads him into the den and sits down on the couch. “How about I talk for a little while?”

Staring at the floor, Tim shrugs. “Okay,” he says quietly.

Bruce hums and is silent for a moment before he says, “Flashbacks happen because your brain is processing something that happened to you. There’s no common rule for what sort of thing it might be, but it’s usually a situation where you felt like you had no control.”

With his free hand, Tim picks at a stray thread on his jeans and says nothing.

“When we’re in a stressful or dangerous situation, our brains store those memories and feelings for later. Once we feel safe, they start pulling everything out and processing it. Does that make sense?”

“I guess,” Tim mumbles, digging his palm into his thigh.

Bruce wordlessly hands him a pillow. Tim looks up at Bruce and frowns for a moment-- what’s he supposed to do with a pillow?-- before he takes it and hugs it to his chest. Almost immediately, something in his chest relaxes. Oh, that’s nice.

“Sometimes,” Bruce continues, “The feelings that our brains dig up can be scary and overwhelming. When that happens, we need better coping mechanisms than that we already have. That’s when it can be useful to ask for help.”

Tim peers up at Bruce suspiciously. “What do you mean?” he asks cautiously.

“There’s someone that our family likes to talk to. Her name is Dinah and she’s very good at what she does. I’ve been going to her for years, as have Dick and Jason. ”

“You mean like… therapy?”

Bruce nods, smiling. “Exactly.”

Tim tangles his fingers in the fringe of the pillow. “I don’t _need_ therapy,” he argues. “It’s not that bad, really. I’m not--” his tongue gets tangled in the pile of words in his head. _Broken, helpless, useless, weird, wrong._ Frowning, Tim falls silent and stares at the rug as he struggles to piece together what he wants to say.

“Just because you don’t feel like your situation is ‘bad enough’ to warrant help doesn’t mean that your life wouldn’t be improved by therapy,” Bruce says, his voice painfully gentle. “Dinah could help you find ways to make your situation and your head feel more manageable.”

Shaking his head, Tim drops Bruce’s hand and stands up. “May I be excused?”

Bruce looks up at him sadly. “You don’t have to ask to be excused, bud.”

Tim waits, staring at Bruce until Bruce finally sighs and looks away. “You’re allowed to go whenever you want, sweetheart.”

Dropping the pillow back on the couch, Tim turns and marches back to his room. He leaves the door open just a crack before flopping down onto his bed. Why can’t things go back to the way they were? When he was living at home with his parents, things weren’t always great, but at least _this_ wasn’t happening. At least he was able to handle a stupid fucking glass breaking without completely losing it in front of all of the Waynes.

A soft knock on the door interrupts his thoughts. “What is it,” Tim asks flatly, sitting up.

Alfred nudges open the door and Tim immediately feels bad. After all, Alfred didn’t do anything to him. “I’ve brought your dinner.” He sets the plate down on Tim’s nightstand but doesn’t immediately leave. Tim watches him carefully, but he doesn’t sit down or try to come closer. He just… lingers.

“Master Tim,” Alfred says at last, “I know that you must be feeling very tired right now, and perhaps a little confused. But I want to assure you that you are not the first person in this household who has been through such an experience. Nor, I suspect, will you be the last.” He sighs. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is that although everything may feel very overwhelming right now, you will be able to build your life again, just as everyone before you has.”

Tim blinks at Alfred, watching him and waiting for him to leave. Finally, Alfred gives him a soft smile. “I suppose that you want some space. Text me if you need anything, my dear boy. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

With that, Alfred slips out of the room, leaving behind the tray of food. Tim sighs and stares at it for a moment before sitting up. Doing things feels weirdly hard, like his brain is lagging, but he’s pretty sure that he should eat. He eats dinner while sitting cross-legged on his bed and while the food tastes good, he also doesn’t really taste it at the same time. When he’s full, he sets the half-empty plate back on his nightstand and flops back down on his bed.

Why does he feel so tired? He doesn’t want to sleep, but he wants to lay down and not move. Hmm. Tim grabs his weighted blanket from the foot of his bed and wriggles underneath it. There, that’s better. He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through news websites to keep track of what the Justice League has been up to. Paragraphs flow through his brain like water through a sieve and Tim, unfortunately, absorbs nothing.

Why is it so hard to do something as simple as reading? With a frustrated sigh, Tim sets his phone down on his bed and covers his face with his hands.

He stays like that for a while, and then suddenly he feels his arm on his face. Not just feels, but _Feels_ with a capital F. Tim opens his eyes and stares at his hands in awe. What the fuck? One moment, he was just laying there under his weighted blanket and the next, he _feels_ things.

Huh, that’s pretty weird. Tim closes his eyes again and just lays there, feeling the heft of the blanket and the softness of his sweater against his skin. Unfortunately, the peace and quiet is interrupted by a knock on his door.

Tim groans and throws one arm over his face. “Hello?”

“Tim? Do you mind if I talk to you for a bit?” Dick asks.

Moving his arm, Tim opens his eyes and finds Dick hovering near the door. Tim _does_ mind if Dick talks to him, but he can’t exactly tell him that. Instead, he shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

Dick nods and pads over to the bed, taking a seat on the edge. “Thank you,” he says with a small smile. Compared to his usual energy and bounciness, Dick seems strangely subdued.

“Did Bruce send you?” Tim asks suspiciously.

“No. I talked to Bruce, but he didn’t send me. I didn’t tell him that I was planning on talking to you at all, actually.” For a long moment, Dick just watches him, but Tim can’t figure out what he wants. If Bruce didn’t send him, then why is he here?

Tim just stays quiet, staring right back at Dick. Finally, Dick glances away and looks out at the window instead. “Can I tell you a story?” he asks abruptly.

“Okay,” Tim replies suspiciously.

“When I first came to live with Bruce, I was…” Dick pauses, searching for words. “Not all there,” he finishes.

Tim sits up, though he keeps the weighted blanket on his legs. This seems like the sort of conversation where it’s more polite if he’s sitting instead of laying down.

“It took some time for everything to come out, of course. I started off as… quiet, but I was able to hold myself together for a little while. I felt like I didn’t have the right to be upset about what happened. They were my parents and I loved them, but I was adopted by a billionaire. Lots of people had it worse than I did.” Dick smiles sadly and glances back at Tim before continuing. “Did you know that when I first met Bruce, he was practically allergic to emotions?”

“Really?” Tim’s eyebrows creep up his face.

Laughing, Dick nods. “Really. He is much, _much_ better now, believe me. But he used to have lots of trouble with figuring out what to say or do with me. He was trying, of course. He read lots of books and he genuinely wanted to help, but he didn’t know how.”

Frowning, Tim tilts his head. “What did you do?”

“Oh, it’s not what _I_ did. I was a traumatized nine year old. All I could do was start crying for seemingly no reason and dissociate. But what _Bruce_ did was look at the every-two-weeks therapy sessions that the foster system recommended for me and then slam dunk both of us into a shitload of therapy.”

Tim blinks. “Bruce went to therapy because of… you?”

Dick shrugs. “Well, not just because of me. It was more like… he partially did it _for_ me. He realized that he had lots of issues that he wanted to deal with so they wouldn’t affect me.”

“Huh,” Tim says, staring down at his weighted blanket.

There’s a long moment of silence and then Dick sighs, flopping down onto his back. “Okay, hang on, let me sort out my thoughts. I had points that I wanted to make. Things to tell you. You know, general brotherly advice.” He scrubs at his face and raises his legs into the air, where he slowly rotates both of his ankles in silence.

Tim sits there and waits, hands clasped in his lap, waiting, Dick finally takes his hands off of his face.

“Right,” he says. “Okay. Let’s restart. That good with you?” Tim nods. “All right, cool cool cool. Okay, so I was super depressed and also very traumatized when I came to Bruce. I knew objectively that my parents dying in front of me is not great, but I thought-- I thought that I was _fine_. Bruce’s parents died right in front of him and then he decided to dress up as a bat and bunch people, right? But I thought that just because I didn’t do that, it meant that I didn’t need help.”

“Okay,” Tim says a little suspiciously as he runs the fabric of his weighted blankets through his fingers.

“The thing is--” Dick sits up and twists around to face Tim, “And this is an important point, so pay attention, baby bird. The thing is that I was still very much traumatized, but I just _didn’t realize it_. In fact, I had barely processed anything that happened to me. But the thing is, I thought that help was for other people. I thought that just because I was surviving day to day meant that I was fine.”

He leans closer to Tim and slowly, so slowly, places a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “But Tim, baby bird. I was _so fucking wrong_. It never even occurred to me that I could get through the day without struggling. I could be _happy_. There’s so much more out there for us than just this.”

For a split second, Tim meets Dick’s eyes before looking away. “But…” he finally says, “I’m _fine_.” His eyes water.

“Oh, Timmy,” Dick says softly. “Do you mind if I touch you? Do you want to be touched?”

“It’s fine,” Tim mumbles.

“I’m going to hug you, okay?”

When Tim doesn’t protest, Dick gently pulls him into one of his patented Dick Grayson-Wayne Big Brother Hugs™. Tucking Tim’s head under his chin, Dick pulls him securely against his chest. “Oh, Timmy,” he says again. “It’s okay if it feels like a very small thing. You can be bothered by a small thing.”

“But it wasn’t that bad,” Tim whispers, voice cracking. “It wasn’t that bad, but now I’m just….” he trails off.

Dick kisses the top of his head. “That’s because it hadn’t hit you yet. Sometimes it takes us a while to feel things about stuff that’s happened to us.”

He rubs Tim’s back as Tim leans against his chest and tries to not cry again. Finally, when he’s reasonably confident that he won’t burst into tears, Tim pulls away.

“Tim,” Dick says, placing a light hand on his shoulder, “I think it would really help you if you talked to Dinah. It doesn’t have to be like you’re going to her for something big. Think of it as asking her for tips and advice.”

Tim bites his lip, considering. “Has Bruce already scheduled the appointments?”

“Knowing him? Yes. They’re probably already listed in his calendar.” Dick laughs.

“If he’s already scheduled them, then it would be rude to cancel,” Tim says, carefully not looking at Dick. “So. I guess I’ll go.”

Eyes softening, Dick wraps Tim in another hug. “I think it’s time for some big brother cuddles,” he declares. Tim sighs, but lets Dick tug him down to the bed to cuddle anyways and snuggles closer to him. After all, it would be such a shame to waste an opportunity to tuck his head under Dick’s chin and use him as a pillow.

“I’m very proud of you, you know,” Dick says after a few minutes of relative silence. “We all are. I know that it’s hard when something feels like it shouldn’t be a big deal, but it still somehow is. Just know that there’s no right way to do things, okay? We love you just the way you are.”

Tim doesn’t reply, but he lets Dick tuck his head under his chin again. Between the soft weight of his blanket and the rhythmic rise and fall of Dick’s chest, Tim almost feels okay.

* * *

His first therapy appointment with Dinah Lance is on Wednesday. Tim has seen pictures of Black Canary and he’s familiar with the somewhat punk style of her hero uniform. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t a petite woman wearing a denim jacket to come roaring down Wayne Manor’s driveway on what looks like a custom-built motorcycle.

“Remember, you’re getting a pizza party later,” Bruce tells Tim fifteen minutes later. “I’m _so_ proud of you, bud.”

“Um. Thanks, Bruce,” Tim replies, shifting in his seat.

Dinah smiles at Bruce and makes a shooing motion. “Why don’t you let Tim and I talk for a bit, okay?”

Bruce has the decency to look a little sheepish. “Right. I’ll be downstairs in the Batcave if you need me,” he says and takes a moment to press a quick kiss to the top of Tim’s head before leaving.

Dinah turns to Tim and smiles gently, leaning back in her chair. “All right, so Bruce has briefed me on your situation, but why don’t you tell me a little bit about why you’re here today?”

* * *

Four hours later, Tim is sprawled out on one of the couches in the den as Queer Eye plays.

Dick hands him a slice of pizza. “Here, you need more food.”

Tim takes it; he isn’t one to turn down free pizza. “Thanks,” he replies before stuffing his mouth full of hot cheesy goodness.

“So, how are the emotions?” Jason asks casually from Tim’s other side.

Mouth full of cheese, Tim gives Jason a despairing look. Dick laughs and gently nudges Tim’s shoulder with his own. “I think he’s still figuring it out, Little Wing.”

Jason nods knowingly. “I remember my first session with Dinah. Don’t worry, Timbo. It gets easier.”

“You can adjust what you’re tackling and how deep you’re going if it’s too much for you to handle all at once. There’s no one right way to go to therapy,” Dick adds.

Tim takes another bite of pizza to avoid talking about his feelings for the second time that day. Thankfully, Queer Eye’s makeover target of the day steps onto the screen wearing a frankly atrocious tiger print shirt that makes Jason screech and throw his hands up, sending popcorn flying everywhere.

“That’s disgusting!” Jason shouts as Ace scrambles to eat the popcorn on the floor. “An absolute fuckin’ nightmare, I tell you. _Disgusting._ ”

* * *

There’s a light knock on Tim’s bedroom door. Glancing up from his nintendo switch, he pauses when he sees Bruce standing in the doorway. “Hi, B,” he says, setting his switch down on his bed. “What’s up?”

“Hi, sport,” Bruce replies warmly. “Is now a good time to talk? Nothing bad, I promise. It’s just… plans for the future.”

Instantly, alarms go off in Tim’s head even as he forces himself to keep smiling. “Sure. What is it?”

Bruce walks inside and takes a seat in the armchair next to Tim’s bed. He waits for Tim to sit up fully and turn to face him before saying, “Your parents have agreed to let you live with me long term as your foster parent. They decided to settle your custody case out of court.”

Whatever Tim was planning to say dies on his tongue. He blinks once, then twice. “Oh. Okay.” His head whirls, processing the new information. “Can I still see them, or…?”

“Yes, but only supervised visits.”

A frown twists at Tim’s mouth. “Only supervised visits? But-- they’re my parents,” he says, a little helplessly.

Bruce’s expression softens. “They are,” he agrees gently, “And they may love you, but that doesn’t mean everything that happened was okay. People can love you and still hurt you.” His words sound familiar; Dinah has been saying something similar during their sessions.

Nodding, Tim curls into himself a little, thinking. Supervised visits aren’t _that_ bad, right? It’s not like a judge decided that they did something totally unforgivable or something. After several therapy sessions, Tim is prepared to admit that perhaps his home life at Drake Manor wasn’t the greatest, but it wasn’t absolutely terrible. It could’ve been worse.

At least he’s still able to see his parents. They’re his _parents_ , after all. Sure, they weren’t always the best and they might have incidentally hurt him, but they love him. He’s pretty sure that they love him.

“Did you want to see them?” Bruce asks carefully, watching him.

Without thinking, Tim shakes his head before flushing. “I mean. They’re my parents, I should see them….”

Fixing him with a look, Bruce tilts his head slightly. “But do you want to?”

At a loss for words, Tim falls silent. Bruce merely nods. “All right. You don’t have to see them just because you should feel like you want to see them, sweetheart. If you decide later that you want to visit them, let me know and I can arrange something, okay?”

Staring down at his comforter, Tim nods a little. There’s a rustle of fabric as Bruce stands up, and then he presses a kiss to the top of Tim’s head. “Well, I’ll let you get back to… whatever it is you’re doing.”

(It’s Animal Crossing. Bruce definitely knows what Animal Crossing is; he’s played it with Tim and Dick before. He must be playing his Clueless Dad Act, as Jason likes to call it.)

Tim must be as surprised as Bruce at the small smile that it elicits from him. “Okay. Thanks, B.”

“Of course, bud.” Bruce smiles gently at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling, before he slips out of Tim’s room.

* * *

Tim and Jason emerge from the stairs to the Batcave after their workout with wet, freshly-washed hair and shuffle into the den. Bruce is sitting in an armchair with files spread out on the coffee table in front of him and the television set to a local news station.

“Hi, kids,” he says as they walk in, smiling at them over his reading glasses. “How was your workout?”

With a loud groan, Jason flops face first onto the couch next to Bruce. “Painful,” he declares. “Man, I’m done being Robin. My legs frickin’ hurt.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re done being Robin? What are you going to do next?”

“This.” Jason raises his leg and tries to poke Bruce in the face with his socked foot.

Their conversation fades into the background as Tim stares at the television.

“--next, in our discussion about vigilantes’ role in the forces both driving and curbing crime, we turn to Jeffrey Anderson’s article,” the anchor announces.

Tim’s blood turns to fire and then ice. They’re discussing his article on the evening news! They’re discussing _his article_ on the _evening news._ Fuck. And Bruce Wayne, aka Batman, is _watching it_.

Double fuck.

“--Tim?” Bruce is saying.

Oh, shit. Tim turns to look at Bruce. “Yeah?”

“Have you read the article?”

Tim frowns. “What article?”

Bruce gestures towards the television screen. “The article written by this guy, Jeffrey Anderson. Or any of his pieces.”

Uh oh. Oh, the things Tim would do to escape this conversation. “Um,” Tim says. “I’ve read some of his work, I think.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. And he’s lying to the World’s Greatest Detective.

Bruce sighs and leans back in his armchair, setting down his reading glasses. “How much do you know about the author himself?”

“Not much?”

Pinching his nose, Bruce tilts his head back. “All right. I was hoping that perhaps you would’ve already known about him and done some digging on him, but that’s perfectly fine. The Wayne Foundation has been trying to track him down and offer him a job since November, but he’s been ignoring all of our emails.”

Have they been sending him more emails? Oops. Tim should really be more careful about checking his Jeffrey Anderson email.

“I tried tracking his IP address, but it sent me on a wild goose chase,” Bruce continues. “ _I_ couldn’t hack him, even with all of my resources. Which raises the question: just who is this person who is somehow able to evade _Batman_?”

“Right,” Tim says, forcing his expression into his thinking face. “That _is_ strange.”

Bruce rubs at his face. “I’ve been reading through his articles to see if I can find anything that could be used to instigate some sort of plot, but there’s _nothing_. If he’s a villain, then he’s a damn good one.”

It takes an incredible amount of willpower for Tim to keep himself from dropping to the floor and screaming.

“So what’s your goal here? What are you trying to do with this guy?” he asks instead.

“First, make sure that he’s not a supervillain. Second, hire him,” Bruce replies.

Tim nods thoughtfully to disguise how much he wants to move to Iceland and start herding sheep for a living. “Got it.”

“He’d be a great addition to the Wayne Foundation, but the trouble is that he’s never made a public appearance. I’ve talked to a couple of conferences that have invited him as a speaker, but he’s never showed up.”

Tim vaguely remembers receiving emails from random conferences that he promptly deleted. Oops.

Jason rolls over onto his side, peering up at Bruce. “Do you want us to look into it?”

Bruce sighs. “Maybe. Regardless, I’d like you both to look over the articles. They’re very thought-provoking. Perhaps we can discuss them together later.”

Outwardly, Tim nods. Inwardly, Tim screams.

He is _so_ fucked. So, so irreparably fucked. Bruce wants him to _read his old writing_. Disgusting. Atrocious. Terrible. Tim would rather drink ten of Bruce’s disgusting toxic waste protein shakes than read his old writing. But if he wants to keep this secret, then it looks like he’s going to have to do it anyways!

“I’m going to go do homework,” Tim says instead of screaming. “I’ll be in my room if anything needs me.”

Bruce nods and waves him off. “Have fun, sport. Text me if you need any help.”

“How can you _move_ ,” Jason grumbles into the couch cushions. “I know that we’re still having you work your way up to the big stuff, but _damn_.”

“Language,” Bruce says automatically.

Tim walks out of the study and nearly misses Jason’s reply of, “Yeah, but _fuck_ leg day!”

He takes the elevator up to the second floor instead of using the stairs, on account of his very sore legs. Flopping down face first onto his bed, Tim allows himself the luxury of whispering, “Oh my fucking god.”

If he does a silent scream, well. That’s between him and his pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you to the wonderful [S](https://chocolateandsilver.tumblr.com/) and amazing [goldkirk](https://goldkirk.tumblr.com/)!! 
> 
> From here on out, updates will take a little longer because of grad school. I'll try to keep everyone updated on tumblr and let you all know approximately when the next updates will be posted. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading!! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Time for some shameless self-advertising! Check out my tumblrs for more content:  
> [@distracted-dragon-age (writing blog)](https://distracted-dragon-age.tumblr.com/)  
> [@batfam-chaos (DCU/batfam sideblog)](https://batfam-chaos.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Come yell with me!! Where I live, it's always Screaming O'Clock. :D


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